My Fair Pyro
by smalldad
Summary: A powerful and mysterious assassin wants Saxton Hale dead, so what does the Administrator do? The obvious: assigns two of her finest mercenaries an undercover mission in NYC to take out the assassin before the Saxxy Awards. Before they can complete the mission, however—one mercenary needs a lesson in ladyship. Who better to teach her than a Frenchman?[complete, undergoing revision]
1. Undercover, Brother

to anyone reading this who remembers this story after my three-year hiatus: thank you for coming back to this lol. to everyone else: enjoy!

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><p><em>Chapter One: Undercover Brother<em>

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><p>Another early morning, another torrential rainstorm, another cart to push, another race against the clock.<p>

Every day consisted of the same routine.

Jaded mercenaries from both the Reliable Excavation Demolition and the Builders League United battled it out in brutal, bloody warfare. Specialized soldiers from each company, each the best in their respective fields, raced against each other to push carts and conquer territory.

However, the pyrotechnics specialist loyal to the BLU team, known as the team's "Pyro", always wondered. Why were they paid so handsomely? Five million dollars a year could only keep one from wondering for so long. Why were they constantly racing against each other? So many questions without answers, yet there wasn't one that could top this: how had they and their "slain" rivals always managed to cheat death via high-tech genetic regeneration? From grenade blasts to decapitation, shrapnel to saws, bullets to flames—somehow, these meant nothing to the crazed fighters who, afterwards, reanimated and sprinted out of their headquarters unscathed and ready for battle.

The Pyro snapped back into reality as thoughts of suspicious wonder overshadowed the matter at hand. Payload race. Five in the morning. Losing. Back to trying to set people on fire...in the rain.

Oh, how the Pyro loathed water in these places. Water meant relief to victims, escape from their pyre. What fun was it to set victims on fire, only to see them jump into a nearby body of liquid and be relieved of such a fate—which was what had just happened.

Cobalt flame met propane as the roaring fire billowed out of the thrower, igniting an unfortunate nearby enemy Scout. The Pyro was unable to reach for the Axtinguisher quickly enough, and the screaming Scout scampered off, engulfed in flames. Wise enough not to chase down the fastest member of the opposite team, the Pyro retreated a bit and saw that the panicked Scout had leaped into a nearby pond, dousing himself of the blazes. About to try to finish the Scout off at range, the fire-expert realized that the flare gun was barely any good in such torrential weather.

_Should've brought my shotgun._

The Pyro sighed in irritation and ran off (or tried to, for the ground was severely muddy), deciding to give the BLUs another round of spy-checking. Spotting the BLU team's Sniper wielding a Huntsman, the Pyro shot out a small, friendly flame in order to light it.

The Sniper, however, quickly shot up in flames and the unlucky enemy Spy sunk to the ground in an inferno. Pleased at the sight of the corpse on the ground, the Pyro turned and left, ready to—

**_TCHZZZG!_**

_Dead fucking Ringer, _thought the Pyro bitterly, whirling around and mercilessly setting the invisible spy ablaze. An airblast towards the wall, a sharp axe to the skull. A satisfying squelch of blood, sprayed all over the place.

The Pyro triumphantly wiped the blood droplets from the goggles of the mask. Dead at last.

The sound of rusted cart wheels squealing against slippery metal tracks reverberated throughout the bloodied battleground. The Pyro saw that the entire BLU team was pushing the cart and joined them.

"Help, Pyro! Come here!" roared the Heavy through the wind and rain, his back to the bomb as he trudged backwards. Lightning flashed and, shortly afterward, thunder rolled throughout the land.

"Yeah, getcha ass over here, Mumbles!" cried the drenched Scout from atop the cart as the Pyro scurried over, spraying flames about and pushing as hard as physically possible. The resolve and might of all nine BLUs led to a resounding _DING_, followed by the Announcer's loud, pleased purr of _**"Victory!"**_.The REDs dropped their weapons and scuttled about the worn battlefield pathetically, ashamed hands in the air. All of them tried desperately to escape the wrath of the opposing team, but no solace was found as they were all slaughtered in a gory, victorious rage.

But it didn't matter, for they would just respawn in their base later.

The BLUs, after thoroughly exterminating the REDs, ran back to their headquarters, most of them slapping each other on the backs and screaming in jubilation. None of them could wait to shower and head to bed after the extreme overtime of a particularly important match—it was five-thirty in the morning, after all, and they had been fighting since midnight. As most of them rowdily filed into the locker room, some conversed whilst doffing their uniforms. The Soldier and Demoman loudly argued about the best brand of American whiskey as the young Scout, who'd had nary a drop of alcohol touch his tongue, tried to work his way into the argument by bragging about how much he could drink.

The Engineer made few quips as he seemed to have been in deep thought, humming absentmindedly as he doffed his clothes and neatly folded them before discarding them in the hamper. The nearby Sniper, similarly, kept to himself save for the occasional muttering under his breath. The Heavy carefully set his minigun down on the bench—he'd give Sasha a good cleaning later—as he laughed heartily to himself, replaying the triumphant slaughter in his head and musing over how cowardly the RED team was. A stern, loud "Archimedes, NO!" was heard as one of the Medic's trusty doves flew from his locker and perched itself on one of the ceiling's support beams.

After showering, shaving (a step unnecessary for the Scout), and dressing, the team left the locker room one by one and off to bed, as all of them were positively beat from the night's strife. The Pyro, however, who had waited patiently for the team to leave, stealthily strode into the locker room...well, as stealthily as anyone could be in a bulky, flame-retardant suit. Despite having had the same routine for five years, the wielder of flames always made it a point to check the room extensively before removing any article of clothing. After making sure of being completely and utterly alone, the Pyro quickly removed the sturdy rubber gas mask from her head.

Shaking her hopelessly frizzed, russet hair about, she carefully removed her asbestos-lined suit, letting it slide to the floor. Underneath, she wore what the other classes wore—a plain white tee-shirt, thick socks, and baggy shorts to allow for easy movement. As for these garments, she tore her dirty, sweat-soaked clothes off and threw them into the laundry hamper. She removed the compression binding from her chest and slouched, wrapping her muscular figure in an all-encompassing towel. She did not by any means consider her stout, flame-scarred figure attractive, but what did she care? Her body got the job done well and that's all that mattered to her. Who had the time to care about the opposite sex with a job like hers?

Upon reaching the shower stall, she twisted the metal handle and let the piping hot water cleanse the sweat and grime from her worn body. She squeezed a huge dollop of liquid from the soap bottle into the palm of her hand, and scrubbed her body thoroughly. Luckily, unlike her team members, none of her body was exposed to the elements, so she didn't have to deal with pesky dirt or dust. Nevertheless, showers were always welcome after battles.

Lost in thought, the Pyro snapped back to reality and realized that the luxury of daydreaming was not in her grasp. She mentally scolded herself for dawdling as she hurriedly turned off the water and quickly rubbed herself down with her towel, drying every drop of water she could. Pyro swiftly dressed, zipping up her suit and pulling on her signature gas mask. Finished with her business, she left the locker room and walked down the hallway towards her bedroom. Preferring to stay secretive, she never used the main hallways to traverse the base. She knew BLU's headquarters like the she knew the back of her hand (or glove, in this instance) and always used the least-traveled corridors.

Unbeknownst to her, her team's Spy used the very same corridors—he was just cloaked whilst doing so. He did not smoke in the base nearly as often as he did on the battlefield. On the field, nobody could detect the scent of expensive burning tobacco behind them, often before receiving a brutal balisong to the back. Indoors, however, one could easily smell a nearby Spy. And so, being the master of espionage that he was, the Spy took every measure to stay hidden when he wanted to stay so, even from his own teammates.

He showered the same way the Pyro did, by waiting for everyone to leave and then going about his business in privacy. He did have an advantage, though, as he used his Cloak & Dagger watch to remain invisible indefinitely. But due to his slightly increased visibility thanks to the water, he as well kept his time in the shower to a minimum.

In the locker room, the sly agent neatly undressed, despite the fact that his suit was caked with blood and sweat. If there was one thing that irritated him the most, it was his clothing being dirtied. He set his folded, unclean clothes aside and, after making sure he was cloaked, removed his balaclava and began showering. He kept his hair very short for convenience's sake, as shorter hair warranted a quicker and easier bathing time. The less time spent unmasked, the better, he quickly finished his shower and shave, dried off, and donned clean attire. There was nothing like a fresh, clean, finely-pressed suit, and he hoped that this one would not be so quick to receive yet another splatter of blood—or else the one who caused it would be found in a pool of their own. With that, the Spy sauntered into the hallway, wanting nothing more than to go to bed.

The Pyro, upon reaching her own room, locking the door, locking the window, closing the curtains, triple-checking the room, and locking the door again, had unzipped her suit and was ready to flop down on her cot when she heard a loud, assertive knock on the door.

In her five years' tenure at BLU, nobody had ever knocked on her door.

She flew into a state of panic. She fumbled with her zipper, clumsily zipping it up as she hobbled towards the door. The gas mask went from on her nightstand to on her head in less than a second.

"Huddahuddah huh!" Pyro yelled as she unlocked her door and flung it open.

The woman at the door was Ms. Pauling, the Administrator's eager and loyal assistant. The Pyro tiredly wondered what the purple-clad young woman wanted from her. As if able to read her mind, Ms. Pauling answered.

"I apologize for summoning you at such an inappropriate time, but the Administrator would like to see you now, sir." The young assistant was careful to address the pyrotechnician as 'sir', despite knowing her actual gender. In fact, the only people who DID know the Pyro's situation were Ms. Pauling, the Administrator, and the Medic, who opened her up some time back and gave her an Überheart.

"Huddah huh," Pyro muttered, following the subordinate to the Administrator's center of operations.

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><p>The Administrator tapped her fingertips together impatiently as she waited for her other guest to arrive. In front of her stood the vexed Spy, who still didn't know why he was summoned to this smoky, dimly-lit office in the first place. To his surprise, however, the one who burst through the doors was…the Pyro? What was he of all people doing here?<p>

"Have a seat, mercenaries," the Administrator said smoothly, gesticulating towards the chairs in front of her vast, intimidating desk. The pale blue glare of countless television monitors surrounding her lit her gaunt face and revealed her malevolent grin. The two gingerly took their seats as their boss began to speak of their upcoming mission.

"I have a very special mission for the two of you," she rasped, gracefully blowing a smoke ring from her cigarette holder and twirling it around her bony fingers as she spoke. "It's mandatory. And if you were to...back out of it, so to speak, we would unfortunately lose the _close _and _special _relationship we've had for these past few years. Now, I'm assuming you're both familiar with the name of Saxton Hale, the owner of Mann Co.?"

The two BLU mercenaries nodded slowly in affirmation as the Administrator continued with the briefing.

"Well, I've just caught word that there is someone, something out there that intends on..._taking care_ of Mr. Hale. Someone out there wants their hands on Mann Co. So, for business-related reasons, I have chosen two mercenaries of mine to go undercover to guard Mr. Hale, and kill the assassin before they get rid of the CEO of our weapon supplier. And those two would be, yes, you've guessed it—you!"

The Pyro said nothing, as she knew it would be futile to try to make an intelligible point with her mask on. The Spy on the other hand, usually cool, casual, and reserved, was oddly vocal on the matter.

"If I may be so bold, what does this 'undercover' mission entail…and why is the Pyro involved?" he asked, shooting a glance at the masked monstrosity next to him. As a master of disguise, reconnaissance, and the like, the Spy could see where the Administrator was coming from, asking for his help. Anyone would want him on their most important mission. But the Pyro? Why ask some mumbling pyromaniac for assistance, when this type of operation required stealth, experience, finesse, and—

"Because we need someone to go undercover as Mr. Hale's girlfriend," the Administrator deadpanned whilst blowing another ring of smoke.

Girlfriend? That meant that the Pyro...

"And if you were to relay any of this information to anyone, doing so would turn out to be highly detrimental to the _strong__, __trusting _friendship we've established…now wouldn't it?"

On any other day the Spy was the epitome of stoic. Strong, silent, calculating. His rational, level head was one of the most useful tools in his arsenal. He had emotions and reactions; it was just that he'd always kept them in check rather than indulging upon frivolous excitements. But hearing that one of the people he fought alongside for years in ruthless, gory combat was a female, one who hardly acted like a lady…that was a bit too shocking for even the Spy.

And so, the dark brown cigarette clenched between his teeth nearly fell from his mouth and into his lap. Luckily for him, he managed to regain his composure before looking like a complete and utter oaf. He cleared his throat.

"_Excusez-moi_?"

"You heard me correctly, mercenary. You will receive a full briefing of the mission on your flight to New York City, where Mr. Hale will arrive on a business trip exactly one week from today. Any further questions will also be answered. You are both dismissed," she said with the flick of her hand, watching her two employees rise and walk towards the exit.

"Oh. And one more thing." The two, on their way out the door already, turned around to face the Administrator.

"You _cannot _fail this mission. Remember, mercenaries…your lives truly are on the line. There's no such thing as respawning where you're going," she laughed dryly. "Do _not_…and I repeat, do_ NOT_ fail me. Now, you are dismissed."

With the chilling words of the Administrator hanging above their heads, the two mercenaries-turned-undercover agents headed out of the dark room to see Ms. Pauling standing in front of them, holding a packed luggage bag in both hands.

"Follow me; we have a jet out back waiting to transport you to your destination. I've already packed both of your things for you." She handed both of them their respective bags and two files filled with information on their undercover identities.

"What about our colleagues? Are they aware of our leave?" inquired the Spy, passively looking at his cloaking watch.

"They will be informed that both of you will not be returning for a period of time, and we have already hired temporary replacements," replied Ms. Pauling.

The Pyro winced at how expendable Ms. Pauling made her sound. There was no time to ponder her expendability, however, as she was soon swiftly ushered onto the private jet that waited for them outside in the empty, expansive New Mexican desert. She plopped down on the leather seat and placed her file on the table, absentmindedly realizing that reading fine print with a heavy-duty gas mask on was not the easiest of tasks. An internal debate ensued—should she doff her mask? She looked up across the table at her teammate, and saw through her tinted vision that he appeared engrossed enough with his dossier.

Her gloved hand reached up to remove her mask, but the Spy happened to look up just in time. Her hand flew down on the table as an awkward silence settled in the cabin, the two mercenaries staring at each other. Spy looked back down at his paperwork for awhile, and the Pyro felt ashamed at herself for being reluctant to take her mask off. An hour of internal strife later, Pyro nervously and reluctantly removed her trusty façade, despite having kept a clandestine face for half a decade. She shook her head, flipped open the manila folder stamped with a red-ink **[CONFIDENTIAL] **on the cover, and began to swiftly scan its contents.

The Spy scanned the contents of his folder in tandem, but when he noticed movement opposite to him, his eyes inconspicuously shifted to survey the woman across the table. The Pyro was indeed a woman; there wasn't a doubt about that. Dark, messy, tangled hair that carelessly fell in her face. Large brown eyes, caterpillar eyebrows, pasty-white skin, scarred cheeks. Though most definitely not the type of woman he would ever bed, he was somewhat surprised to find that she was not altogether ugly. Manly, quite, a bit hard on the eyes, perhaps, unkempt, most certainly. But not ugly.

After the mystery of the Pyro had evaded him for so long, the Spy couldn't help but stare at her. It was his job to know everything about everyone, and having that handle on everyone in the war but the BLU Pyro was simply maddening. Luckily, as he found while he leafing through his job description, he would have plenty of time to solve the enigma that was his colleague.

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><p><strong>TO: <strong>A Spy of the Builder's League United

**FROM: **TF Industries

**CC: **A Pyro of the Builder's League United

**DATE: **Thursday August 3rd, 1972

**SUBJECT: **Job Description

Your job is to groom and instruct the female you are assigned on how to be a proper lady. She must be tailored to such requests in the exact time period of one week; no more. By the time Sir Saxton Hale arrives, she must act the part of his girlfriend and watch for anything suspicious all the while. The Annual Saxxy Awards are upcoming and she is to accompany him. You are also to watch her back for any suspicious citizens and/or employees, you are to protect her from threats, and you are to inform each other of sightings and/or suspicions. If a suspect is found, both are to contact the Administrator immediately. Any questions should be directed towards Hale or one of his associates; I may be reached if they are unable to answer. And, remember—you MUST NOT fail.

P.S. - We will discuss your reward after the mission in the event of completion.

_Regards,_

_The Administrator_

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><p>The Pyro's memo was not much different.<p>

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><p><strong>TO: <strong>A Pyro of the Builder's League United

**FROM: **TF Industries

**CC: **A Spy of the Builder's League United

**DATE: **Thursday August 3, 1972

**SUBJECT: **Job Description

Your job is to become the epitome of a proper lady. Demure, elegant, and packed with panache, you must have it all. No less will be accepted for such a man as Sir Saxton Hale. You must accommodate such requests in the exact time period of one week; no more. By the time Hale arrives, you must act the part of his girlfriend and watch for anything suspicious all the while. The Annual Saxxy Awards are upcoming and you are to accompany him. You are also to watch your and the Spy's back for any suspicious citizens, employees, and you are to inform each other of sightings and/or suspicions. If a suspect is found, both are to contact the Administrator immediately. Any questions should be directed towards Hale or one of his associates; I may be reached if they are unable to answer. And, remember—you MUST NOT fail.

P.S. - We will discuss your reward after the mission in the event of completion.

_Regards,_

_The Administrator_

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><p>Reward? The two met eyes for the first time after finishing their letters. Light blues met dark browns as he waited to hear her voice clearly for the first time. She cleared her throat.<p>

"Well, it looks like I'm gonna need a shitton'a help if I'm gonna be a perfect little lady," she muttered as she cracked a lopsided grin.

Another surprise! The Pyro spoke with a thick, definite New York accent…specifically, one from Queens. Her voice was very low, deep for a woman. Unfortunately, this would make things harder. Spy gave her a look as he put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

"Première lecon," he sighed, "First lesson. Please watch your language. Proper ladies do not swear like sailors."

Pyro flinched. She swore all the time, and not doing so was going to be a difficult habit for her to break. Well, if she was tough enough to single-handedly take down an army of men, she was tough enough to withstand the world of high heels, debutantes and blue-blooded snoots…right?

Right.

She sighed. She was tired and did not feel like taking on the mission of altering her entire personality at the ungodly hour of ten in the morning. As they both continued sorting through the contents of their folders, they found themselves landing in JFK Airport. The two gathered their things and stepped out of the small jet to find a man in a tuxedo and sunglasses holding a makeshift sign that read "SPY & PYRO" in sloppy black marker. He quickly spotted the two and waved them over.

"I am Mr. Reddy, Mr. Hale's accountant and personal assistant. I'm sure the Administrator has already filled you in on the mission?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. She wouldn't shut up about it. Now can we please get to a hotel or somethin'? Enough with the chit-chat. Shit, I'm exhausted."

A little taken aback by her brash demeanor, Mr. Reddy slowly felt a growing sympathy for the Spy. He had LOT of work to do on this woman to make her even remotely ladylike. He led them to a limousine that waited for them in front of the airport; after a trip from Queens to Manhattan, they pulled up to the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, much to the wonderment of the Pyro.

"Mr. Hale only assures the best for the Administrator's employees. Follow me, please."

The new undercover agents looked up at the ritzy hotel in wonderment. The ornate, world-famous establishment that even had its own salad named after it. It was not the first time either had seen or passed by it, but it would be the first time they had actually stayed in a room. Once inside the hotel, they were each given their own rooms directly across the hall from each other, and were told to meet at the lobby at 7:00 PM, sharp.

Finally inside her room, the Pyro did a quick exploration of it before finally flopping down on her king-sized bed and falling asleep.


	2. The Rain in Spain

_Chapter Two: The Rain in Spain_

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><p>One bleary eyelid cracked open, the red glare of the alarm clock prickling the Pyro's eyes. The woman slowly yawned and stretched as she turned towards the clock and read the time: 5:45. She didn't have to be at the lobby for another hour or so, so this gave her time to…to…<p>

What was there to do?

Pyro got up, brushed her teeth, and took another shower for good measure. Such wonderfully-scented, fancy shampoos and soaps there were. Pomegranate mint with a splash of mango? Who even thought up all that froufrou stuff? And conditioner? Conditioner! Why, she hadn't used the stuff in years! She'd even almost forgotten that conditioner was, in fact, a thing. Unsurprisingly, her hair was tangled beyond immediate repair from five years of not caring much for it, save for taking a pair of shears to it every so often. She combed and brushed the first layer, and upon being met with much resistance, gave up and decided to leave doing so for another time.

She put on her old underclothes and boots, for they were still relatively clean. Apparently, she was to be given a new wardrobe as well...although whether she would like it at all would remain to be seen. Thinking about what this mission had in store for her, Pyro left the room and entered the hallway. She pushed the button for the elevator and it arrived almost immediately, its delicately-carved metal curtains parting to reveal an opulent mobile room. Mirrors, gold trim, stained mahogany carvings. A lone sparkling chandelier.

_Shit, even the elevators are fancy, _she observed, mildly impressed. As the double doors opened, the Pyro marched out and spotted Mr. Reddy, along with the Spy.

"6:59 PM," Mr. Reddy read from his watch. "a punctual arrival. I like that."

"Thanks. So, uh…what're we doin' here exactly?"

Mr. Reddy and Spy exchanged glances before looking at the Pyro.

"…What? The hell are you guys lookin' at me for?"

Mr. Reddy sighed at this woman's tongue. This was going to be even more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"We will make you look ravishing, dazzling, and simply splendid," he said as he clapped his hands together. "A team has been assembled in order to transform you from dowdy mercenary to glamour goddess! It will be glorious!"

He'd spun around and walked away with a flourish, beckoning the two to follow him, wherever he was going. The Spy walked briskly towards the door as the Pyro followed in a less-than-graceful manner.

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><p>Upon reaching a warehouse populated with bustling people, curtains, sinks, and mirrors, the Pyro's eyes went wide. Stylish-looking people set up at stations chatted with each other, coffees in hands, prepared for their biggest project yet.<p>

"The fuck's all this?"Pyro asked, eyes darting from person to person.

"Ahem. Understandably, as a lady in combat, you don't, er...keep up much with your appearance," he remarked.

"Yeah, no shit I don't. Thanks for the observation."

"Ah, but this is where we come in to help! We will restyle you, from head to toe, in the latest fashion! Nothing less for the lady of Mr. Hale himself, even if she is just pretend—for we will make quick work of you and turn you into a beautiful woman, an object of desire!"

The Pyro was not an object and did not quite care to be desired, either_. _Her mental pleas, however, went unheard by the Mr. Reddy and she was quickly whisked away to the hair station.

Upon seeing the fiery, tangled mess that the Pyro could just barely pass off as hair, an expert deftly worked in an extra-strength leave-in conditioner and went to work combing out tangles and knots, snipping away at split ends.

"I came here for the challenge," the hairdresser sighed through his teeth, viciously combing a ball of the Pyro's hair in his hand. "And I saw it. And I will conquer it."

"There we go, atta boy. You can do it," Pyro said, encouraging the brave soul who was tasked with taming her seemingly irreparable mane. In two hours' time, after working out all the tangles, extensively styling her hair, and adding more products than she could count, the hairdresser was finally finished. He'd done a terrific job to boot; Pyro's ruddy, unruly hair was completely transformed and now looked model-esque. Voluminous, shiny locks flowed from her head, rather than before, when it more resembled a bird's nest that awkwardly existed atop her scalp.

After this, she was poked and prodded, grabbed and gussied, shoved around from station to station, expert to expert. A manicure, pedicure, and moisturizing treatments for her dreadfully dry skin. Creams to help hide her scars. Her bushy, untamed eyebrows were plucked, snipped, and shaped into thin, flattering arches. The hints of facial hair she'd grown were eliminated (_"_Hey, I worked hard on that 'stache!" she'd cried, as the proudly-grown hair of her upper lip was ripped off with a single strip of hot wax). Imagine her face upon hearing that she would be receiving a full-body hair removal treatment.

"Excuse me? You're kiddin', right? What kind of fu—"

"Relax, mon ami, relax. Not so bad, once you get used to it. Done properly, it should not hurt…very much," the Spy murmured cooly.

Pyro's head whirled around to face Spy. Her eyes went wide.

"You can't be serious. You've done this before?"

"Perhaps," he answered smugly.

She shook her head and dismissed him with her hand. He was far from hairless—she'd seen hair on his arms and he had an obvious five o'clock shadow—but maybe he'd gotten it done years ago, as a joke, when he was drunk or something. Yeah, that was definitely it. Nobody would do this sober.

Of course, she did end up receiving a rather painful full-body wax. Every area with hair was fair game to those evil gloved cosmeticians and their wax strips. Pyro decided to brace herself and add this experience to her list of tortures she'd endured. For a woman who'd survived bludgeoning, getting hit with jars of piss, clumsy falls down cliffs, grenade explosions, and the like, she had figured that a simple wax would be cake compared to them.

Well…not quite.

The Spy, along with Mr. Reddy, stood outside of the booth.

"_Mon Dieu_, what was that? It sounded as if she'd just gotten backstabbed."

"The wax," replied Mr. Reddy, shuddering at the very thought of receiving one. Not long after, the bathrobe-clad Pyro shuffled out of the booth, now lacking most body hair and facing both men with utter contempt.

"Fuck you. Fuckin'...fuck both of you."

"Ah-ah-ah, ami. Such a foul tongue you have," said Spy with a smirk, waving a condescending gloved finger near her face.

After giving him the dirtiest stink-eye she could muster and using all her willpower not to grab and break his finger, the Pyro was promptly whisked away to the next station where she would be further jabbed at by those blasted beauty tools.

Another all-nighter, much to the mercenaries' chagrin, was in order, as fixing up the Pyro took even more work than anticipated. Quite obviously, not keeping up with your appearance for five years tends to catch up with you. So, when the Pyro was, at last, finished at daybreak, the Spy and Mr. Reddy were very much relieved. However, nothing could've prepared them for what they were about to see.

"Marvelous!" interjected Mr. Reddy, genuinely impressed with the work that had been done on the trainwreck that was the Pyro's appearance. The rough-and-ready woman with tangled hair and deadly weapons stepped out (rather, stumbled out, nearly tripping) in black pumps. She'd almost never walked in high heels before, and doing so was a rather new experience. She was also wearing a dress for the first time in many years—black, and though it hugged her curves and muscles, it came to a modest hemline to promote the public's perceived image of class and elegance. The makeup team had also done wonders with her. Her brown eyes stood out against dramatic kohl liner, and her scars were well-concealed. Like wearing a dress, wearing makeup (or even jewelry) was also a thing she hadn't done in a remarkably long while, and she felt strangely vulnerable in such a getup. It was going to take some getting used to, but she figured it a necessary evil for the sake of completing the mission. With that, she shuffled up to the Spy whilst admiring herself in a nearby full-length mirror.

"Hah, hey. not too shabby, eh?" she asked, weight shifted to one leg as she posed in front of her teammate.

Spy truly would've preferred death than having to admit it at that moment, but the Pyro really looked...comely. She even smelled nice, and it was admittedly hard to recognize her from the rugged tumbleweed he'd met. Nonetheless, as was expected of him, he kept his composure. After all, she was still the same person, just cleaned up.

"Not bad, not bad at all," he answered nonchalantly. Pyro took this as a semi-compliment and curtsied melodramatically.

"Merci beaucoup, mon ami," she drawled in an exaggerated French accent.

"Parlez vous français?_" _asked Spy, careful not to show his ever-so-slight surprise.

"Uhhh…a little, maybe. Dunno, I took a year of it in, like, high school," laughed Pyro, her chuckles boisterous and loud. The Spy smirked…a lesson was to come of this.

_"_Leçon numéro deux—lesson two, your laugh. It should be light, airy. Yours is rowdy, disruptive, commanding, and that is most definitely not our goal here," remarked Spy, with a flick of his cigarette ash. Pyro flinched again. These constant blows to the qualities that made her tick were getting annoying. The second time, she tried a light, airy giggle.

"No, much too faux. Keep the length to a minimum," he said, arms crossed. Pyro sighed and threw her hands in the air.

"Well, fuckin' say somethin' funny, then! How am I supposed to laugh when you're just standin' around, smokin'? Nothin's funny here, pal!"

She had a valid point. How annoying.

"Alright then, imagine this," he sighed. "The rough, manly Soldier, dancing, prancing around, in a pink, frilly tutu." At this, he tried in vain to raise the low, gravelly pitch of his voice. "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, oh so pretty, and witty, and gay!"

Before the Spy could finish his impression of Soldier singing a ballad from _West Side Story_, his debutante-in-training was giggling. The merciless, murderous Pyro…was giggling light, airy, feminine giggles. At his cue to stop, she stopped, albeit with a dimpled grin still on her recently made-up face.

"Good, good. Still needs a bit of work, but not bad. Not bad."

Perhaps this would not be so hard after all.

* * *

><p>The Spy had spoken far too soon. Teaching someone how to laugh nicely was one thing. Actually, it was probably one of the easiest parts. He still had to teach her how to walk, talk, present herself, stand, and eat, amongst many other things.<p>

They'd gone to sleep a while after the Spy taught the Pyro how to laugh properly and woke up at roughly two in the afternoon. By that point, their circadian rhythms were royally screwed, and they were tasked with fixing them. However, that was far from their main priority, which was getting Pyro to act the part of a proper lady. She already had the looks down, thanks to the makeover team, but she needed to act the part as well.

Spy began working on what he deemed Pyro's biggest downfall: her voice. A thick, Queens accent littered with curses at the speaker's discretion was not considered particularly elegant. Spy was practicing vocal exercises with her in her room so to improve her enunciation...and had been for the last four or so hours. No matter how funny her casual witticisms and wisecracks were, they were not socially appropriate. By this time, he'd already taken his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves, and was pacing about the area. He cleared his throat, and began again.

"Listen closely and repeat after me. _'The tire is soft.'_"

"Well, shit, ya better get it changed. You ain't goin anywhere with that!"

"Non, non, non," he groaned. "Work with me, ami."

"Fine. The tie-yuh is sawft."

"Ire."

"Eye-yuh."

"Ire."

"Ugh, eye-yuh As in, this exercise is causin' me nothin' but eye-yuh!"

The woman was clearly frustrated, for simply giving up her ways of speech so quickly was proving to be difficult. Being muted by a gas mask for so long had given her even more of a reason not to change the way she spoke. But now people would be listening to every word she so much uttered. She had to sound impeccable.

"Well, you're not so flawless eitha, monsieur," she said, poking a finger into his chest, "You can't even make the "TTHHHH" sound right!"

"You are being absurd."

"Am not! Try this, then. 'The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.'"

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the—"

"Oh, fuck you. You do this for a living," she said, annoyed at his flawless pronunciation despite his accent.

"Please refrain from cursing. And besides, you did ask."

"But what if you didn't do the whole spy schtick, frenchie? You'd be having just as much trouble as I'm havin'."

"...Perhaps, but am I the one who needs to play the part of Saxton Hale's girlfriend and be under public scrutiny?"

Silence.

"No? I wonder who IS the one—"

"Ah, go fff—"

Spy leaned in coyly. She scowled and bit her lip.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," Pyro huffed as she crossed her arms defiantly.

* * *

><p>The Spy, desperately in need of a break from his phonetic coaching duties, decided to save speech improvement for another time and moved on. The Pyro's next lesson would involve table manners. Fortunately, they were not outstandingly egregious; she usually chewed quietly with her mouth closed, and was not overly loud or clumsy. Unfortunately, there were other problems.<p>

Mr. Reddy and the Spy sat across from each other, as the Pyro sat at the head of the table.

"Which fork is first?" she asked, carefully eyeing the five utensils on the left side of her plate.

"Start from the outside, and as the meal progresses, work your way in," replied Mr. Reddy.

Mr. Bidwell, Saxton Hale's personal chef and PR handler, arrived with a plate of various foods.

"Show us how you eat," requested Spy.

Asking someone if you can watch them eat is usually quite awkward, normally makes them very uncomfortable, and is generally a social faux pas. However, the Pyro was not your typical person, was not in a typical social situation, and so only slightly miffed by the request. Her mastication itself was fine enough, but her posture was a whole other story. Slouched over her plate, elbows on the table, holding the utensils incorrectly, bringing the plate up to her lips—the list went on and on.

"Ma'am, you hold the fork in your left hand and the knife in your right," quipped Mr. Bidwell.

"Really? Wow, of all the things I'm doin' wrong...I've been doin' the whole 'eating' thing wrong my whole life, too?"

"W-well, yes, by the widely accepted standards of etiquette," he replied. Pyro sighed deeply.

"Well, that's okay, that's what ya here for. So I can learn to do things the fancy-schmancy way." She flashed him a wide grin as the man blushed a bit.

"Straighten your back while eating, s'il vous plaît. And under no circumstances should you put your elbows on the table," Spy remarked. After following the advice of her "fancy-schmancy" coaches, Pyro was beginning to get the hang of high-class table manners. Mr. Reddy noticed this and decided that it was time to test them out in public, so the four went to a white-tablecloth restaurant within the hotel. Like the building itself and its tenants, it reeked of affluence.

"Mr. Hale is the sixth richest man in the world. He won't even notice this bill," assured Mr. Reddy with a flippant, dismissive wave of his hand. With that, the Pyro ordered something she'd had before—filet mignon. Luckily, she noticed that the Spy hadn't ordered something overtly and stereotypically French, like escargot. If he had, she would've had restrain herself in order to contain a fit of ironic laughter.

When her food had finally arrived, instead of clawing into it like a famished sea monster, she had taken her dining critique into consideration and channeled her inner aristocrat. It was an awkward-feeling and slightly uncomfortable experience—holding the utensils differently, not propping her elbows up on the table, not slouched over her food, eating at a normal pace. Even simply wearing a cloth napkin on her lap felt foreign to her.

When the check came, she was relieved not because she didn't have to pay, but because the whole ordeal was finally over with. As the bill was glibly told to be "put on the tab" by Mr. Reddy, the group made their way back upstairs to their respective rooms after bidding each other goodnight. Pyro arrived in her room, but despite the time being a bit past eleven at night, she wasn't in the least bit tired. Attempting sleep then would certainly prove futile, thanks to her out-of-whack sleep schedule. She changed into her far more comfortable under-suit clothes from BLU and decided to check out the view on the balcony.

As she peered out over the bustling streets of the city, and the only word she could associate with this place was home_. _She was home, in the comfortable embrace of bright lights, loud noises, and the smell of diesel fuel. It felt rather odd, to say the least—for the past five years, she'd lived in Frontier America, somewhere in New Mexico, in the middle of some God-forsaken place. But now, she was back in her home city, the one she truly knew like the back of her hand. The breeze blew in her hair as she felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. She hadn't felt a breeze on her face in the longest time, nor had she spent this much time with her mask off in public. This was all happening so fast. It had only been a couple of days, and she was still far from being an upper-cruster.

Growing up in a cramped apartment back in Rego Park, Queens with siblings, parents, and grandparents had taught her to be tough. Never to take anyone's bullshit, never to take anything lying down. Now, she felt that she was forced to temporarily abandon these ideals. She felt raw and vulnerable in this getup and was having a very hard time adapting to this jarring new persona of hers. But at the same time, she felt the tiniest...glimmer of enjoyment, was it? This new-found wonderment she felt towards adequately exploring her previously buried femininity shocked her. Did she enjoy being feminine? Would she even make a feminine woman? Did this mean she couldn't be tough? How could she be tough in a dress and heels? And how could she possibly...sort of..._like _this feeling of being better-looking when how she looked before suited her just fine?

Pyro shook her head to clear it of the increasingly fast thought train that was getting out-of-hand. Those thoughts were stupid emotions that were distracting her from the mission at hand. She was just being a huge baby; she could do this. If she could do this, she could conquer anything else that came her way. She just needed to be more cooperative was all.

With that, she sighed, and headed to bed, hoping to try to sleep some.

* * *

><p>The Spy was not having much luck with sleeping, either. Despite being in New York City, he had refused to remove his mask—he was networked with so many people and clients, surely he had a chance of running into one in the city that never slept. Besides, he was a spy who had to keep his identity under wraps at all times. He had come from a long line of spies—not the mercenary types, but private-eye types. To <em>not <em>be involved with espionage in his family made one the black sheep, which was why he became a spy to begin with. He was a natural spy, but he did not want to be secretive figure, crawling about the streets in search of information or someone he had to assassinate. As a boy, he remembered, he would've much rather been a lawyer or barrister, but his family refused to let his talents go to waste. To shut them up, he became a spy in some secret military faction he'd been invited into, spending his days backstabbing, disguising, and retrieving intelligence on the enemy more than any of his ancestors ever had.

As he looked out on his balcony, many of the streets had come back to him in memory. He'd been to every capital and major city of every country you could think of, as he'd constantly moved from country to country in his childhood. He was born in Paris and French was his native language, but not long after he was born, every two to six months or so brought him to a new country. He didn't exactly mind—other cultures were certainly interesting, and he constantly built new networks—but just for once, he would've liked to have a simple, solid life, to know what he was doing, to have a clear goal. Becoming a Spy for the Builder's League United gave him that solidity, that ever-elusive consistency that he had longed for his entire life.

But now, that consistency had been interrupted—he'd been forced to go undercover again out in the real, live world. No sentries to sap, no enemy intelligence to grab, no cart to push, no Snipers to stab. The only one with the target on their back was the one planning to kill Saxton Hale, and it was their job to stop them.

With this in mind, Spy glanced at his watch. 12:08 AM. He still couldn't get to sleep. He could get pills for that sort of thing though, right? It was worth a shot, he'd figured.

Little did he know that his partner had a similar thought.

As they both left their respective rooms and shut the doors at the same time, they looked up at each other across the hallway with wide eyes.

"The hell are you doin' up?" Pyro asked.

"I'm feeling rather restless."

"Say no more. Hey, let's for a walk together. Maybe that'll help."

At that, the duo left the building and took a brief walk around the streets of the Upper East Side. After a bout of silence, Spy broke the ice.

"You hail from Queens, non?"

Pyro whirled her head towards him. "Howd'ja know?"

"Well, your acc—"

"Yeah, I know, but how'd you know I wasn't from the Bronx, or from Jersey, or somethin'? We sound pretty similar, y'know."

"I am a Spy, you know. We are trained to spot these things."

The Pyro accepted this answer.

"Hm. And you're French, right?"

"Non, I am Chinese," Spy remarked with an air of sarcasm and smoke.

"Hey, hey, I'm just makin' sure here. You are a Spy, after all. You could be makin' this whole French thing up. Who knows?"

"I understand, you have a point. But I assure you, I hail from France."

"Hah. You sure?"

"Oui."

They walked a bit more, enjoying the colorful lights and ambient city activities as the night passed by. Soon, though, the Spy realized that he was in unfamiliar territory and glanced at the woman beside him. She seemed totally confident—she could navigate one of the biggest cities in the world with her eyes closed. Come to think of it, she had a natural sense of direction, whether using the lesser-traveled hallways back in the base or traveling in a city. He as well had a fine-tuned sense of direction, but he hadn't even been in this area before.

"What time is it?" Pyro asked.

"12:45."

"Alright, let's go back. We still gotta huge day ahead of us," said Pyro, as an idea clicked in her head. The Spy noticed her grin and wondered what was brewing in that head of hers.

"Hey, Spy!"

"Wha—"

"I'll race ya back, on the count of three. Three, two, go!"

Spy quirked his eyebrow as the woman took off the other way, her heavy-duty fire boots thumping against the pavement. He absolutely hated running, but his pride was at stake. He couldn't lose a race to a woman, even if she was certainly no ordinary woman. With that, he took off after her into the night.


	3. Hendrix, or the BeeGees?

Chapter Three: Hendrix or the BeeGees?

* * *

><p>The Spy hadn't run that far that quickly in a long time, and being a smoker hadn't helped. Though he wasn't terribly old, he felt as though he were a 60-year-old man who had just sprinted a mile. He inconspicuously caught his breath in front of the hotel and quickly adjusted his slipping suspenders. He felt Pyro's presence behind him and turned around to find her there, ready to try and startle him.<p>

"Oh please, I am a Spy," he said. "It would be in vain to attempt to catch me off-guard." Though with her mannerisms, there were plenty of times in which she had already caught him off-guard without trying. He simply excelled in hiding his emotions.

"Yeah, yeah. you're just lucky I didn't have my flamethrower," she replied cockily, "or else you woulda been caught off-guard, alright!"

"You would even think of hurting a comrade?" Spy gasped in a mock-offended tone.

"Ah, shut up," Pyro said as she laughed and playfully hit the Spy on the arm.

"Ladies do not hit," Spy said, mildly amused.

"Yeah, well, how many ladies you see torchin' people to death?" Pyro said, knowing full well that the answer was zero. A comfortable silence fell amongst the two, as they simply watched the life in New York City pass them by as they stood. Before long, however, it had gotten quite late, and the Pyro found herself yawning.

"Hey, I'm gonna go hit the sack, french toast. I'll see you in the mornin'," she quipped, followed by friendly but hard slap on the back to the Spy.

"Goodnight then," he replied, slightly taken aback. He watched her as the woman walked away into the nearly-empty lobby. She stood out like a sore thumb against the marble floor and rich decoration, donned in such drab and heavy-duty clothing, walking with sweeping, thumping, confident strides.

He leaned against the façade of the building, opened his metal case, removed a cigarette, and reflected upon his time spent with this enigma known as the Pyro. For five years, they'd hardly gotten to know each other as well as some of their other teammates had. At most, they'd thanked each other for saving the other at some point on the field. He'd never even considered that she could've been female. Now that he thought back on it, however, the signs were rather blatant. He mentally scolded himself for not being more astute and picking up on obvious clues. That flowered bag in her locker, the fact that her face remained concealed at all times; she never removed her mask around the others. Pyro was even the second shortest member of the team, as the only one shorter was the Engineer.

And in only a few days, he'd gone from knowing next to nothing to knowing a lot about his teammate. He wondered why she'd been surprisingly open with him, despite him being a spy. At that, the wind began to pick up, and the Spy felt a small drop of water land on his nose.

"Merde," he muttered to himself, flicking his cigarette to the ground. He stepped on the butt and headed inside to avoid the torrential downpour that was to come.

* * *

><p>It was mid-morning when the Pyro awoke to the sounds of impatient knocks on her door. It was "them" again, "them" being a small team of stylists who picked out new outfits, did her hair and makeup, and tried to teach her style basics. Though this daily morning routine did not take nearly as long as her first grand makeover, there was still work to be done on teaching her how to carry herself in a fashionable and ladylike manner. Luckily, she was picking up on most of these things faster than expected.<p>

Though it was only morning, one wouldn't be able to tell by looking outside. The sky was a dark, gloomy shade of gray, illuminated with the occasional flash of lightning. Raindrops the size of marbles pelted down on the city, with citizens scuttling about with umbrellas or newspapers atop their heads, trying desperately to shield themselves.

Fortunately, the duo didn't have to venture into the storm to get anything done. The day was spent indoors, improving Pyro's posture, vernacular, and dialect. But after about two hours of work, little progress was being made on her voice. Long gone was Spy's suit jacket and waistcoat, along with most of his patience.

"Listen to me, will you?" he snapped, rolling up his sleeves. "You must pronounce all of your consonants to their fullest. The Rs, the INGs…everything. Once again: The tire..."

"The ty...err...rrr..."

"Is,"

"Is..."

"Soft."

"Sohhhft. Sohft. Soft."

The Pyro concentrated very hard. "'The ti…re…is s…oh…ft. The tire is soft! The tire is soft!" Pyro screamed, finally reaching a breakthrough.

"Dieu merci!" Spy shouted over Pyro's exclamations. They were finally getting somewhere.

"I can't believe it! The tire's soft! I got it!"

"Try to speak in this manner more often. It will help you adjust to it."

"Okay, okay, I'll try. But oh God, I'm just plotzing right now! I can't believe I finally got it!"

"About that…" Spy hesitated, "try to refrain from using...Yiddish. People will think you belong at a nursing home in Boca Raton, playing Bingo."

"Feh, that's farkakte!" Pyro said with a wave of dismissal. Spy threw his hands up, at a loss.

"All right, fine, fine. You want classy and demure, you've got it."

"I sure hope so, it has been three days," he said pointedly. "However, you have made substantial progress, I must say."

"Oh, all thanks to you," said Pyro with a bashful, genuine grin. Speaking "properly" in a believable manner on a consistent basis took quite a bit of conscious effort, but it could be managed. On a celebratory and playful whim, she deftly lifted one Spy's navy suspender straps and let it go.

At the resounding _snap_ of the elastic against his chest, and at the sight of the Spy's face (an extremely rare look of utter shock), Pyro found it very difficult to titter in a ladylike manner. She wanted nothing more than to let out loud, raucous laughter, but powered through and ended up covering her mouth with both hands, giggling away madly.

After quickly recovering from the initial surprise of the gesture, the Spy began...was that...was he...laughing? He very seldom smiled at all, let alone laughed—he was a spy, for one, and was an unflappable professional first and foremost. But the biggest reason for repressing his laughter was evidently the fact that he laughed loudly and snorted hopelessly while doing so; trying to cease his laughter made him laugh even more. Hearing her uptight and straight-laced teammate with such an out-of-place laugh came as a colossal shock to the Pyro. Upon hearing it, all of her learned manners went out the window and her eyes became wide enough to see the whites around her brown irises. She began laughing, then wheezing so hard that she became silent, with tears of mirth and mascara running down her face.

Several good minutes of merriment had gone by before it was time to get back to business. The pair collected themselves, and the Spy cleared his throat as he put his waistcoat back on. He lit another cigarette, breathed out a puff of smoke, and locked eyes with his colleague.

"Never do that again."

"Yeah, you don't have to tell me twice," said Pyro. "Let's take a break from this stuff for now. What can we work on next?"

"Well…can you dance?"

* * *

><p>With Mr. Reddy at the ready in her suite's cleared living room, the Pyro began her crash course in formal dance technique. In case she was to accompany Saxton Hale to any sort of social gathering that involved dancing, she had to be prepared.<p>

"I cannot simply bust a move on the floor, can I? This is not a disco?" asked the Pyro, still getting used to her stilted and overtly formal speech.

"I'm afraid not, Miss," he replied.

And so, she and Mr. Reddy practiced waltzing, a formal dance with which one could not go wrong. Luckily, she was familiar with tricky footwork—such was necessary in order to escape sniper sights and ambushes, so she had surprisingly little issue with dancing.

"You're doing very well," complimented Mr. Reddy.

"Why thank you!" she replied, flattered. "I've done more dancing now than I have in my entire lifetime."

The Spy sat on the sofa with his legs crossed, watching on with an slight twinge of envy as his now-protégé absorbed the dance steps like a sponge. She was good at moving, that was for sure. Normally a bit of a graceless klutz, she had the capacity to become incredibly strategic and coordinated once she focused enough. For a beginner, her dance steps were impressively fluid and confident. A relatively seasoned dancer, the Spy saw this and wanted to take her budding skills for a test drive. He stood, straightened himself out, and smoothly approached her after they'd finished and were taking a break.

"May I have this next dance?" he asked suavely, taking her hands into his in one smooth gesture.

"Oh, but of course, kind sir!" Pyro drawled with a barely-contained smirk, clearly amused. Not a sappy romantic in the slightest, she took the request in stride. Mr. Reddy put the needle to the vinyl and the two danced for awhile to the waltz playing softly in the background. Pyro found that she kept time rather well and had managed to keep up with her much more advanced dance partner.

"At the risk of sounding cliché," remarked Mr. Reddy after they had concluded their dance, "you two fit perfectly in each other's arms."

Now, the Pyro was not easily embarrassed whatsoever. Things like standing before a fresh corpse, rocking out and playing fake-guitar with an axe were done with zero shame. It was at this, this simple offhand observation that made the Pyro blush a stark crimson. Oh dear, if only she'd had her mask.

"Huh," the Spy said, his arms now crossed. "You think so?" All of a sudden, he was curious.

"I'm just a bit of a romantic," he admitted. Odd that the calculating, reserved assistant of Saxton Hale was a "bit of a romantic". Then again, the Pyro was proving to be capable of acting like a proper lady, the Spy snorted like a piglet while laughing, and, ostensibly, she and the Spy "fit perfectly in each other's arms". It was laughable, utterly preposterous! It had seemed like the entire world was upside-down, inside-out, and backwards.

* * *

><p>"Keep your head up, shoulders back, and spine straight, please! Goodness."<p>

"I'm trying!"

It was time to concentrate on the Pyro's less-than-spectacular posture. After years of crouching, hunching, and running in combat, her extremely masculine stance and gait had stuck with her. Atop her head lay several books, with the idea that walking properly would keep them in that position. Unfortunately, they tumbled to the floor with yet another failed attempt at a proper strut.

"Hm. Okay," Spy sighed. "Imagine that there is a string going through your body, and out the top of your head," he suggested, pinching the air above head to illustrate the point.

"Come on, this is stupid. Why do I have to walk like this?"

"It exudes a certain confidence. Gives people a certain impression. A woman who sits, stands, and walks with her back straight, head up, and shoulders back convinces people that she is confident, proper. And do smile whenever possible."

Pyro sighed. Her back ached a bit when she stood "correctly" for too long—though, that was probably a bad sign anyway.

"How am I supposed to smile and strut like a model on a catwalk in these heels? Do you know how hard it is to walk in these?"

The Spy was still adjusting to hearing her trying to speak properly, regularly, plainly. Just a plain, generic American accent with a hint of lilt. It was exactly what he'd had in mind, too. Hours and hours of phonetic training had finally paid off, but her new voice was...missing something. Deep down, Spy sort of missed the zest and force that had once been in her voice.

It took another couple of hours, but before she knew it, the Pyro's posture took on a sharp improvement. She'd have to keep walking and sitting that way if she wanted her posture to remain correct, but she was truly getting the hang of it. Until then, though, her sore spine was in need of a break.

"Let's do something else," she said, rubbing her lower back. "What else do you have prepared for me?"

"Now, we converse."

"What? About what?"

"That, I will teach you."

"You taught me how to talk and now you're gonna teach me what to talk about?"

"Precisely. Now there are a certain range of topics about which two people can speak—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Who am I going to have to...converse with...to the extent that I need to learn about what's appropriate to talk about?" Pyro asked, confused.

"With whom will you have to converse," Spy corrected. "Upon being associated with Saxton Hale, many important people will want to talk with you. A proper...rather, any normal woman would not talk about the time she set a fat, heavily-armed Russian man on fire and then proceeded to axe him." Pyro frowned.

"But—"

"No buts. As interesting as those things may be to you, or other mercenaries, they will scare off normal people."

"So what boring shit do I have to talk about?"

"Firstly, stop cursing. It is unflattering coming from the mouth of a proper lady, such as you are now. Secondly, you must discuss things of higher thinking. Compliment the host, discuss art, recent novels, haute couture with other ladies. The weather, perhaps."

"Then what am I supposed to say about weather like this?" Pyro grumbled, gesturing towards the window.

"How about this: 'This weather may be a bit dreary, but at least the flowers are getting water!'" he suggested.

"Are you kidding me? That was the best _you_ could do? What hope do I have?"

"It was but an example."

"Still wouldn't want to talk to you about the weather if you said things like that. In all seriousness, though, I don't mind the rain—when I'm not fighting in it," Pyro mumbled as she glanced out the window. The storm had refused to let up.

"Not everyone is going to have skill in the art of conversation. Therefore, you must learn to compensate."

"Fine. What else I can talk about?"

"Hm…do you play any instruments?" Spy asked, sipping a small cup of tepid coffee that'd been sitting on the table.

Pyro hesitated. She did, indeed play one instrument—and she was very good at it, too. But it most certainly was not the instrument of a "lady".

"Does, um, guitar count?"

"Classical?"

"Electric."

At this, the Spy did a spit-take.

"HEY!"

"Excuse me," he said as he wiped his mouth, "you play the…electric guitar?"

"Since I was a teenager."

This would explain why her idea of taunting the opponent was by playing mock-guitar over their dead body with her fire axe.

"Oh, the electric guitar," he groaned. "Why didn't you decide to play the piano, or harp, or flute, or violin, or—"

"I don't know, okay? And hey, if one of those bluebloods likes Hendrix, then I've scored!"

"I assure you, they most certainly will not—especially not Saxton Hale."

"Yes, I know, he flew in via helicopter and terrorized Woodstock. But that is beside the point! I'll talk about nice, Australian things like, uh, the Bee Gees! They started out in Australia, right? He's sure to like them," Pyro assured. "And you never know, maybe he'll appreciate my instrument of choice."

Spy shook his head. She may have been able to begin to act ladylike, but the more he got to know her, the weirder she seemed.

"Hey, uh...do...you play any instruments?" Pyro asked in an almost anxious voice, interrupting the Spy's train of thought. He did, but decided to make a game of it.

"I do," he said, looking at the window and taking another sip of the stale coffee. "Guess."

"Hm...mandolin."

"No."

"Saxophone!"

"No."

"Biwa lute."

"…No."

"Oud."

"What? No."

"Cowbell! Definitely the—"

"No."

"Ugh...bagpipes?"

"Do I look like the Demoman to you?"

The Pyro thought hard for a bit, a tad discouraged. And then, it hit her.

"You play the accordion, don't you?" she guessed with a grin. He did, in fact, play the accordion.

"Nice guess, you've got it."

"I can tell, I can tell. It's a...talent of mine," she said with a wide grin.

"Yes, excellent talent. It only took you six guesses."

"Oh, come on," she said with a laugh. "Not a bad conversation starter, huh?"

"Not bad at all, that is, if the person you are speaking with even plays an instrument. It may come in handy, though, so do keep it in mind."

"Will do. You know, maybe talking with those blue bloods won't be so hard, after all," Pyro said hopefully.

"Oh, I sure hope so," Spy murmured, taking another sip of his coffee.


	4. Pinch Me!

_Chapter Four: Pinch Me!_

* * *

><p>Running.<p>

Heart pounding in her chest, feet slamming against the pavement, blood pumping, rushing to every muscle in her body. She turned her head.

Someone was chasing her, following her. A man. Always a man.

He was closing in quickly. Shit.

Had to run, had to escape, couldn't get caught, couldn't get caught. It would end horribly, hurtfully. She wasn't ready for this. Never ready, always running, always running.

She looked back to see if the figure was still following her; she then faced forward and skidded to a stop, suddenly met with a wall. A dead end.

Fuck.

She whirled around. Her heart thundered in her chest now. Her tongue felt swollen. Sweat poured down her face, her breathing ragged and irregular. She gasped for air, she tried to run, but couldn't move.

Stuck to the ground.

The figure approached her slowly and she could do nothing but watch. His strong arms were suddenly wrapped around her; she struggled in his grasp. Fiercely strong she was, but still not stronger than he. She squinted her eyes shut and took deep, labored breaths, frantically looking about the cigarette smoke-filled area. There was no escape. She turned back to look at him and caught herself gazing into his piercing blue eyes. They seemed to peer into her very soul; she stopped squirming as she became hopelessly transfixed.

His cool, leathery, gloved hands cupped her cheeks as his face inched nearer to hers with every drawn breath. Trembling in his grasp, she—

"**HOLY SHIT!**" Pyro shouted, sitting bolt upright in a cold sweat as she clutched her chest. Her stomach was doing flips, her heart was in her throat, and her breath was quick. What the hell was that? _What the hell just happened?_

_It was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream, just a dream, _she thought frantically, gripping her head. But was it really?

She arose from her bed and slowly headed to the bathroom. Once inside, she flicked the light switch, turned on the faucet, and splashed handfuls of cold water onto her face. Looking up, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

The woman in the reflection looked worn but resilient. Her eyes, big, deep pools of dark brown, masked a steely tenacity. Despite changing everything about herself on the surface to suit the needs of the mission, she was still the same old gal on the inside, wasn't she?

What was that_ dream _all about? That man—though she was slow to admit it even to herself—was, without a doubt, the Spy. Why? Where did that even come from? She'd never kissed a man before, never really wanted to...or so she thought. Those things were all just so trivial, right? Her main priority in life was to kill. There were men she'd crushed on before or found attractive, sure, and those feelings were quickly and effectively squashed. But this feeling was definitely _different. _The Spy was not just some ordinary crush. This affinity was strange, and new, and funny-feeling. She honestly and genuinely liked him, despite his standoffish mannerisms. The way he looked at her and treated her and seemed to...accept her for who she was, something no man had ever done before. Despite all of his efforts to change her for the mission's sake, she entertained the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, it seemed he liked her regular old self.

_Yeah. When hell freezes over._

Oh, who was she fooling? She would just have to let this one blow over, like any other iota of feeling she'd had for other men. They were scared of her, afraid of who she was. Who would ever truly want her? Who would want her scars, yells, swears, boisterous laughs, hulking muscles, morbid sense of humor, and lack of any ladylike qualities? She was surely too much like a man for any one to be attracted to her in return.

Pyro tried to push the blasted Frenchman out of her thoughts to no avail. It'd only been four days, for God's sake! How could she possibly be developing feelings for him now? Who was she, some teenybopper schoolgirl? As she further indulged in her own thoughts, Pyro began to wonder whether those feelings been welling up for years or if they were recent.

Why was she feeling this way about her own teammate? He was reserved, sarcastic, stuffy, cold, calculating…but not after spending the better part of the week with him. He didn't act like he did in the base or on the field here, he acted human. He was actually sociable, friendly, pleasant even. He'd asked to dance with her and hadn't gutted her like a Cornish game hen like she'd thought he would. Perhaps he only acted like a backstabbing scumbag all the time to intimidate people. It could be that they wouldn't take him seriously if he was cordial.

Even if they did have a thing, how was that supposed to work out when BLU didn't tolerate relationships of any—

**_Oy, step back a minute! Someone get me an ice bucket to pour on myself! Where the fuck am I goin' with this? _****Pyro thought. She shook her head wildly.**

BLU's policy didn't matter because it would never, ever get that far; she was just getting ahead of herself. That was dangerous. She had to push back her emotions if she wanted to do her best on this mission. Nobody would be interested in her, that was fine, no big deal, end of discussion.

_Just complete the mission and you'll be fine._

With that, Pyro decided to go back to sleep. She forcefully shut her eyes, pushed the Spy out of her thoughts, and with great effort, slowly sank into a restless, fitful sleep.

* * *

><p>The next morning bore weather that was much better than the previous day's. Clear skies, strong sun, and mild temperature. Unfortunately, the team only had a few days left before the wall-smashing Saxton Hale arrived in the city to claim <em>Project Pyro<em> as his undercover lady friend.

After being re-made up to fit the bill, Pyro made her way back into her suite's living room and greeted the two men sitting there, awaiting yet another day of working on her guise.

"How is my deb-in-training doing this fine morning?" asked Mr. Reddy.

_I can do this, I've rehearsed this._

"Ah, wonderfully, simply splendid!" she lied, sporting her signature thousand-watt grin. She wasn't doing quite as wonderfully as she'd said, however—she felt fatigued, rushed, and a bit (okay, very) internally conflicted.

_Suck it up, some women have to do this for their whole lives,_ she thought to herself. _And if they think a poor schlub like me can't be high-class, well they can think a-fuckin'-gain! As for that stupid spy, I can just...worry about his sorry ass later._

Mr. Reddy, though, bought her response hook, line, and sinker.

"I'm afraid I cannot assist in anything today. Plans and arrangements are piling up, so I must continue to prepare for Mr. Hale's arrival, as should you! Until then, comrades," he bid.

He waved and left the room, leaving the two mercenaries in his wake. A thick, solid minute of awkward silence settled into the room before the Spy decided to shatter it into millions of tiny shards.

"Is there something wrong, mademoiselle?" he questioned, checking his pocket watch that hung from his waistcoat.

"What? No, of course not! What could possibly be wrong?" Pyro shrugged with a sheepish grin.

"You know I have an awfully hard time believing that."

"Well, it IS a bit stressful, you know, trying to do a 180 on my personality in a matter of days."

"Understandably. And there is still much work to be done."

"I know. But, I got the basics down, right? That's got to count for something."

Spy chuckled. "It certainly does, chérie."

_Chérie? Why_ _chérie_? _What the fuck?_ Pyro's heart began to beat fast again before she finally worked up the nerve to ask him a question that had been nagging at her since her the previous night.

"Hey. Uh, how come you're being so nice to me all of a sudden? You, um, never acted this way at the base."

Spy was taken a bit off-guard, but as always, didn't show it. To try and catch her off-guard in retaliation, he answered in a straightforward manner.

"I am not fighting in a war right now. I do not have to constantly duck for fear of jars of _piss_, Spy-hungry enemy Pyros, or the sentries of laborers. During war, I must strike fear and paranoia into my enemies. Even my teammates should fear my very presence, and I will not accomplish that by being nice and civil at all times to them. Now, I must blend in with the common civilians, for that is what we spies do—blend in. When the assassin shows a trace, we will find him and work together to kill him. But for now, I shall be myself. My own personality. I have nothing to hide here."

The Pyro considered this and figured that it seemed legitimate enough of a reason, close enough to her own hypothesis. She decided to take his word for it.

"Seems legit," she shrugged. Had he heard her correctly?

That was all? _"__Seems legit__"_? The more he spoke with her, the more he found himself baffled at her peculiarity_. _He'd composed that heartfelt speech punctiliously in his mind, and all he got was a _"seems legit"_? Women usually clamored to listen to him speak. They were enraptured in his words. Getting a rise out of her was going to prove to be very difficult, but the Spy was more than up to the challenge.

"Eloquent word choice," he commented drly, lighting up a new cigarette.

"Should I have said legitimate instead of 'legit'?" Pyro asked, realizing her blunder.

"Well, yes. Your diction might've improved, but your word choice is not favorable. Do not shorten words, and if possible, use more sophisticated vocabulary."

"No curses, no slang, no shortened words. What, am I supposed to be a dictionary or something?"

"Not exactly. A highly educated woman sounds…sounds..."

"Sounds what?"

The Spy moved his line of vision from the ceiling into the Pyro's eyes. He slowly blew three smoke rings without breaking her gaze.

"Sexier, but of course," he said, trying to gauge her reaction. A quirked brow and a smirk on her face. Not good enough, simply wouldn't do. He was going to have to turn the charm full-on to disarm her. He was just trying to have some fun, anyway. A bit of flirting never hurt anyone, right? Of course not. He was a professional ladykiller, he'd have her in his arms in an instant.

Little did he know that as soon as those words left his mouth, Pyro's skin instantly began feeling cold and clammy, that tingles began making their way all over her body, that she was putting very much effort into appearing cool and unaffected. She wasn't going to let him just melt her like this. She was better than that.

"Really, now? Well then, it's a good thing I'm not a model, you know! Being sexy is too much work," Pyro sighed, and flopped down onto the bed. She decided to take control of the conversation for once. "You know, I'd really much rather just spend my days sending fireworks into the sky…or into other people! You should try it sometime. It can be therapeutic. So much fun, I'm telling you..."

Spy stared at the figure lying on the mattress in…he didn't know what, exactly. Was it awe? What exactly had just happened? He'd totally just _had _that conversation in the _bag. _And now, he, well, didn't. He could try and shift the flow again to something even racier—no, he decided. She wasn't stupid by any means and would notice. It would seem desperate, she would realize it and just change the subject again. Trying to predict her like he could easily predict other people was hard work._ Predictably unpredictable, _she was.

Meanwhile, said figure lying on the mattress stifled a yawn with much difficulty.

"Yo, what ti—I mean, _yawn_, may I have the time, please?"

Pleased at her correction, he complied.

"Roughly a quarter until eleven."

"Alright," she replied. "That gives me some time." She yawned again and before she even realized it, she'd closed her eyes and very quickly fell fast asleep. Her last thought? That stupid Spy had better stay the hell out of her dreams.

After a moment of wondering what the Pyro meant, Spy looked up. What was she talking about, time to do what?

_Oh. _That's what she'd meant. He'd wondered just how poorly she'd slept the previous night to warrant such a rapid fall into slumber. More importantly, he wondered what had caused such a sleepless night.

Her relaxed form coupled with the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest told the Spy that she was already deeply asleep. He decided to refrain from waking her up, as she looked quite exhausted. With nothing else better to do, he decided to indulge in a stereotypically spy-like thing to do: watch her.

Now, it is often said that people look serene whilst asleep. For the Pyro, she did not look at peace. She looked…harried? What was the word? _Troubled, _he thought, _very troubled. _The conflict in her face worried him.

A bit bored at that point, he leaned back in his chair and slept very lightly for about an hour. Spies always slept in a catlike manner—lightly and with one eye open, so to speak. Half an hour in, he instantly awoke, for he'd thought he'd heard something moving. It was just the Pyro stirring in her sleep, shifting into the fetal position. He thought nothing of it and promptly went back to his catnap.

After awakening fully, he found the Pyro still sleeping, but she looked, if possible, even more disturbed than before. He slowly walked over to her, and stood there watching her face, sensing something wrong. After a couple of sharp intakes of breath, her eyelids flew open and she made a startled noise.

So that was why she'd had trouble sleeping the previous night.

The slightly-rattled woman cautiously sat up and tried to catch her breath. Thank goodness she hadn't reacted like she had the previous night, for despite her warnings, that blasted Spy had made his way into her dreams once again.

Spy had no knowledge of this, of course, but he did not have to ask to know that there was something wrong.

"Were you having a bad dream?" he asked.

How did he know?

It was "bad", but not quite. The more she thought about it, the more she believed that it wasn't necessarily a bad dream. She just wasn't _ready _for the sort of things her dreams promoted. She would rather die than tell him about them, though.

"No, but I can't tell you. I'd, um, really rather not."

He asked his next question with the intention of trying as hard as possible not to sound conceited.

"Did the dream involve _me_?" Spy asked, twiddling with his gloves.

_Shit, shit, _**_SHIT!_**

Spy took Pyro's gasp and incredulous face as a definite _yes._

"It's okay, you do not have to—"

"Thanks," she breathed a sigh of relief.

Why was she dreaming about him, though? The dream didn't seem like it was funny, or weird like a lot of dreams were. It seemed rather disturbing based on the behavior she exhibited whilst sleeping. He wondered why she didn't want to tell him about a dream that involved him, but—_oh._

**_Oh dear._**

It was then that the Spy figured it out. He was very sharp, and usually the first to deduce the true intentions and feelings of others. He realized then that the woman had dreamed about him in a romantic manner, and possibly because she had some sort of actual, real feelings for him.

At this realization, the Spy was also extremely reluctant to admit the same to himself. He'd firstly thought that she was most definitely not his type. He liked a demure, elegant, educated woman who knew her place—not an unruly ball of fire. Yet, even as he toned this ball of fire down to…a _slightly more docile _ball of fire, and she became much more his "type", he found that he preferred her as she was before. She was fresh, different, nothing like he'd ever seen before. She was exhilarating, energetic, the exact opposite of the stuffy dolts with which he'd been surrounded his whole life. And as much as he tried to suppress his feelings, he could not. Unfortunately, now was definitely not the time to let her know how he felt about her...if ever.

Spy snapped out of his reverie at the sight of the the woman in front of him. As he saw her eyes were closed again, he quietly approached her.

"Don't sleep now, or else you certainly won't be able to sleep tonight," he said, tapping her gently.

She slowly opened her eyes and nodded her head in agreement. He was right and she needed her sleep later in order to concentrate.

"True enough," she agreed, rolling off the bed and onto the floor, coming in contact with it with a defining _thud_. She slowly got up and adjusted herself. She was still very sleepy; the nap had done no good as that stupid Spy had still managed to invade her privacy in Dreamland once again. But he was right, if she slept the day away, she would be up all night again.

She got up, stretched, and faced him.

"Well, what now?"

"We continue to work, of course! You are far from perfect and we only have three days left before you are to meet Saxton Hale."

She pumped her fist into the air and let out a battle cry. "DAMN FUCKIN' STRAIGHT! SAXTON HALE, YOU'RE GONNA LOVE ME, AND YOU'RE GONNA LIKE IT!"

Spy didn't bother to correct her and couldn't help but grin a bit. After all, who wouldn't in the presence of that unruly ball of fire?


	5. Master of Disguise

_Chapter Five: Master of Disguise?_

* * *

><p>After several very-much needed cups of coffee, the rest of the day was spent further cleaning up Pyro's mannerisms, as despite her best efforts, she was still far from ideal. Her speech and gait were not flawless, but she had definitely been showing progress at that point.<p>

Spy was showing her how to make an ostentatious entrance by descending the grand staircase in the lobby, but she simply could not grasp why he was making her do this ridiculous thing that made her the center of attention.

"Why do I need to know this?" she asked loudly. "When will I—"

"Do not raise your voice, you are attracting attention. A lady must always keep her temper in check."

This, of course, did nothing for her temper.

"Saxton Hale will be required to frequent parties and ceremonies, and you must be with him at all times to watch his back. The assassin could be anyone, anywhere, so you must be with him whenever you possibly can. And_ you _cannot afford to raise suspicion either!"

With that, Spy returned to the top of the staircase, and descended with a flawless and exemplary grace. Pyro, however, was a bit apprehensive.

"How do you know how to do this? At what point in your lifetime were you required to—"

"Questions, questions, questions. You with the questions, always asking about these things. We have no _time_ to ask questions, we must do!"

Pyro shook her head, sighed, and began down the staircase again, her arm linked with the Spy's.

"Saxton Hale's arm is a lot bigger, you know. I'd have to hold it differently than I do yours."

_Ouch. _Her remark was true, but still a tiny blow to his ego. In comparison, his limbs were lanky noodles against Saxton Hale's brawny tree trunks.

"You only need to get the idea," he sighed, "and smile!"

"Why are you telling me to smile so much? My face hurts now, thanks to you."

"There will be cameras everywhere. When the CEO of one of the world's biggest companies _'finds a mate'_, he will attract heavy press attention. And you will be at the pinnacle of it all. Everyone will be watching _you._"

Pyro rolled her eyes. Surely he was exaggerating.

"If I receive this so-called _'press attention',_" she muttered as she bent her fingers to gesticulate air-quotes, "shouldn't I get, you know, like a, uh…pseudonym? Is that what it's called? Because using my real name is out of the question, in case you've forgotten. And I do kind of need a name."

Spy thought about this. A very valid point had gone totally unnoticed in an otherwise airtight plan. He'd have to consult with Mr. Reddy later to come up with a name for her.

"Oui, and you shall receive one…but later. For now, we must continue!"

"But I'm hungry. Can't I have a sandwich or something?"

"Non, we did not work this morning, so we must do extra work now to make up for it!"

Pyro glared at him.

"Heavy would've let me have one! He says sandwiches are good for the soul and appropriate to consume at all times." Spy could've laughed at that moment.

"In case you have not noticed, mademoiselle, I am _not _the Heavy Weapons Man."

"…_Sandwich Nazi_," she spat under her breath, ascending the staircase for the umpteenth time. Spy could only shake his head, take another inhale of his now-stale cigarette, and follow her.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Reddy! We need to have a talk!"<p>

The busy assistant whirled around from writing things down and taking phone calls to face the lady-in-training. It was unusual from him to be so swamped with work; he was usually very efficient. However, the Fifth Annual Saxxy Awards were to be held that next week, and they'd snuck up on him unexpectedly. He'd done little planning and arranging for them until that moment. He'd had to arrange a flight to fly the mercenaries in per the Administrator's request, rent the hall, rent tuxedos, hire a caterer, purchase the Australium to craft the awards…

"Is it important?" he asked wearily.

"Quite!"

"Well, make it quick, please."

"I'm going to need a name. Spy says I'm going to get a lot of press, and if I don't have a name, I'm_ definitely _not going to look sketchy or anything," she said.

The scribbling of pencil on paper ceased as Mr. Reddy slowly turned around. She was absolutely right—without a name, she was nobody. She also needed a backstory…oh God! How did he forget all of those details? He was usually so astute and competent, and now he was not performing up to par.

Pyro looked a bit affronted. "Did I say something?"

"No. Uh, no, no, no, not at all. I cannot believe I'd forgotten all those details. Thank you for reminding me."

"It's no problem. So the name?"

"Ah yes, the name. What is your ethnicity?"

"Israeli. I'm Jewish."

"Okay, well, let's make you…Irish-American, and Catholic. What's your real name?"

Pyro paused. She looked around and whispered.

"Barbara Cohen."

"Alright, then." He thought for a while before coming up with an undercover name. "Phoebe O'Brien is your new name! Where are you from?"

"Rego Park, Queens."

"Any large Irish communities in Queens?"

"Breezy Point, definitely. I'm from there now, I suppose?"

"Indeed! Congratulations, Phoebe O'Brien from Breezy Park! If you ever need another part added to your backstory, do feel free to expand upon it. Just remember to keep your story concordant to your canon and to tell me when you add to your background. It's important for all of us to stay consistent here, as well."

Pyro nodded slowly and bit her lip. Talk about completely changing her identity.

_Keep it together. __S'all __just part of the job._

* * *

><p>Pyro headed back to her room later that night in order to catch up on some very much-needed rest. It was just her luck, however, that she'd happened to run into the Spy on her way there.<p>

"What did Reddy say about the name predicament?" he asked.

"Well, I have a new name and a backstory to match. Apparently, I'm some Irish Catholic chick named Phoebe O'Brien," she replied. Spy made a face.

"You don't even look remotely Irish. Nobody is going to buy that."

"You'd be surprised. I just gotta—_have to_—," she corrected, "get used to answering to it for a while."

"Indeed, Ms. O'Brien."

Pyro sighed. "Yes, indeed." Just as she was to retreat into her room, she suddenly stopped and looked up at him.

"WAIT. WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. YOU NEED A NAME, TOO!"

Spy turned around. "For what reason?"

"Just in case, you know. People will see you with me and wonder who you are."

"Not if I cloak."

"What about in crowded places? If you bump into people, your cloak drops a bit, you know."

She was right. Pyro thought for a bit, sifting through possibilities and alter-egos in her head. "You can be my Italian assistant, Fabio. You can be gay so nobody spreads any rumors that I'm having an affair with you or something."

The burning roll of tobacco in the Spy's mouth shot right out upon hearing her suggestion. No way in hell was he going to disguise as some flamboyant Italian flamer.

"I cannot simply prance about like that—"

"We need to compromise here. I'm trying to turn myself from a murderous fire-wielder to a fancy lady, and your change isn't even that bad. You're a spy, you'll pull it off flawlessly. Besides, nobody said you had to prance about. Suck it up for the mission." She swatted him on the arm.

Readjusting his tie and taking a deep breath, he straightened up and nodded, changing his demeanor. A Spy like he was capable of _anything. T_his would simply be cake.

"You are on. If you can turn yourself around like this, I can surely camouflage as well. After all, I am the master of disguise." He cleared his throat, and then shrieked in a voice two octaves higher than his own.

"Well, HELLO! Is anyone listening to me?" he screeched with his hands on his hips, "I need a hot specimen to walk by right now, or I'm losing all hope in mankind!" With that, he snapped his gloved fingers in such a saucy manner that Pyro choked.

Spy smirked and lit another cigarette as he witnessed the woman in hysterics at his impression. He was glad he hadn't lost his touch.

"You'd better get used to that. It won't do to have you in hysterics every time your assistant speaks."

Pyro got herself together before resuming. "Yes, yes, I know. That, though, that was just…oh my God. That made my day."

"Glad to hear it."

"Yes, well. I'd best be heading to bed, because we have work that needs to be done tomorrow. Good Night…Fabio," she snorted.

"Buonanotte, Ms. O'Reilly." The name felt odd on his tongue. Calling her 'Pyro' suited her blistering, sizzling personality much more. He turned and walked back to his room as she closed the door. They didn't have very long before Saxton Hale would arrive, and they needed to be on top of everything.

Spy opened the door to his room and headed inside, unaware of the figure watching him from around the bend.


	6. Queen of Überhearts

_Chapter Six: Queen of ÜberHearts_

* * *

><p>The following morning, Pyro had awoken gradually and found that she'd slept much more pleasantly than the previous night. Her dream still involved that darn Spy, but it wasn't a scary dream like the previous night's had been. In the sense of "scary", it wasn't kidnapper-scary, so much as it was eye-opening-scary. She'd finally realized her feelings for that blasted spook, and that'd scared her. No, last night's dream…it involved her and the Spy riding a small, flying unicorn together to one of Pyro's favorite songs, "<em>Wish You Were Here", <em>by Pink Floyd. However, she shrugged the entire thing off as nothing; she'd always had weird, funny, strange dreams. That one was no different.

That day was even busier than the one before. Two days remained before** SAXTON HALE **was to make his grand entrance, and Pyro had to be ready. Her speech was coming along fine, and she began to stop lapsing into her old mannerisms in "proper" conversation. The duo decided to have a short break in their work.

"Why, Fabio," she began in a jokingly uptight voice, "don't you think people will question the fact that you always wear a balaclava?"

"Ugh, yeah, but I'll tell them I'm totally in, like, Witness Protection or something, dollface. They won't think twice about it," he replied with a flip of his gloved hand.

Pyro grinned widely, slowly but surely getting used to the Spy's disguise. The whole thing was still humorous to her. The Spy took advantage of it; in reality, he'd taken on the disguise because a) he could pull it off easily, and b) He enjoyed seeing her smile.

Her smile was something that eluded description to even he. When she genuinely laughed or smiled, her eyes smiled. A lovely smile with not a hint of force. Her whole face lit up. And he liked seeing it every chance he could; being the cause of it was even better. But, as you already know, dear reader, this spy wouldn't even dream of letting those thoughts see the light of day.

"Hey, seriously though…how come you never take your mask off?"

Spy dropped his act and glanced at her.

"I could ask you the same."

"But I'm not wearing my mask now!"

"Ah, but you did. Why did you wear you mask all the time back at the base? You were not handling fire."

"Because if the others found out about me, I'd be ruined! Don't you see? They don't like girls fighting. They would treat me differently. I wouldn't be an equal, I'd suddenly be a liability. I'm the best at what I do so I keep them in the dark. The Administrator let me slip through. A lot of women have done it before in war history, and many are bound to do it in the future. I'm just another one."

"So you wanted to keep a secret."

"Of course! I have to. How else can I fight?"

Spy lightly tapped the ash on the end of his burning cigarette into a nearby ashtray.

"I rest my case."

The Pyro thought for a bit.

"You just do it to be mysterious?"

"Well, that and the fact that I do not exactly have a clean record. I am a spy, and we spies do many things that do not exactly follow the law. We cannot afford to be discovered. You must also realize that I have been wearing this mask for many years, even before I became a mercenary."

"…Huh. Even before this gig, huh? You're even weirder than I thought."

_"_I could say the same for you._"_

"Of course I'm weirder than you thought. You didn't even know what I was. I could've been a man, or a woman, or a hermaphrodite, or a sentient sack of hive-minded potatoes."

"Gracious choice of words."

"I know, really. But seriously. Weren't you ever curious?"

"A Spy is always naturally curious. I wouldn't be one if I wasn't."

"Well, you know how I feel then. I'm curious!"

Spy was about to reply when Pyro cut in again.

"Ten bucks says you just have another mask underneath it," she snorted.

Spy snickered. Actually, that wasn't such a bad idea.

"You will find out one day, chérie," he murmured. "But not now. For now, we must get back to work!"

She sighed in exasperation. His answer would have to do for now. Damn Spies and their secretive ways—and this particular one's ability to make her like him.

But he'd never know that, right? She was too good at hiding her feelings for men, because none of them had ever figured it out in the past. Certainly the Spy of all men hadn't figured it out?

That was ridiculous. He was a _spy_ for goodness' sake; for all she knew, he probably already knew exactly what her dreams were about. He was calling her "_chérie"_ a lot. Could that mean something in return? Nah, French men did that, calling women pet names and such. It probably meant nothing. It definitely meant nothing. It obviously meant nothing. No man would be interested in her. Women, plenty, always hitting on her...but she wasn't even close to swinging that way, much to her chagrin. Would've made life a lot easier, she'd thought. Unfortunately, no _normal _man could ever return some stupid feelings for a wild, pyromaniacal mercenary.

The Spy, however, was not exactly the epitome of "_normal"_.

* * *

><p>Confronting Mr. Reddy with their newfound idea went easier than they expected.<p>

"MR. REDDY! We need to have a talk...again..!"

Still busy working and arranging for Saxton Hale's arrival (and his eponymously-named awards show), the accountant turned around to face the Pyro.

"Yes?"

"We've come up for an identity for Spy! He is now Fabio, my Italian assistant! He wears a mask because he's in Witness Protection and is gay so there are no affair rumors."

"Totally!" Spy chimed in.

"Ah, good work, good work. They'll buy that, bunch of dolts those paparazzi. People will like Fabio; it'll put off any suspicions."

"I suppose. How are the Saxxies coming along? I'm excited! I intend to win the award for _Best Taunt Kill_!"

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to disclose the winners of the awards. You have been nominated, though, I'm allowed to tell you that."

"Boo-yah!" Pyro cheered, clapping her hands and fist-pumping. Spy cleared his throat behind her and she turned to face him.

"You are never to do that in public."

"I knoooow," she drawled.

"_Tres Bien,_" he muttered. The two bid Reddy farewell and left the room.

* * *

><p>On the hotel room balcony at sunset, our mercenaries stood chatting.<p>

"I wonder what sort of reactions I'll garner from the adulating fans of Saxton Hale. And I wonder if our teammates will piece anything together," Pyro pondered.

"You will be liked, if they know what's good for them."

"Thanks, I wish I could be that sure."

"And on the subject of our colleagues, none of them know of your gender, anyway."

_Oops._

"Well…"

Spy turned quickly, jealous. Who the hell_ else _knew besides him?

"J-just the Medic. Remember when he gave us all an electric valve in our hearts to allow for an Übercharge? And he had to cut open our chests?"

"Oui." Pyro put hers to good use very often, setting people on fire and taking an axe to their brains. Spy had a transplant himself, although it was very seldom used. It was used when his disguise was particularly convincing and the enemy Medic's Übercharge allowed him to go on a backstabbing rampage.

"Well, yeah. I refused at first, saying, hey, you know, I don't need that weird, nutjob mad-scientist shit in my body. Like any normal person. But he insisted and said shit like 'haha just in case' and 'oh, the rest of the team got one', so, yeah. I unzipped my suit—but not my mask—and he cut my chest open. And from that point on it became sort of obvious." Pyro remembered it well.

* * *

><p><em>"Pyro," shouted the team's Medic from inside the operating room, "Could you come in, bitte?" Pyro was the last of the mercenaries to receive this "cutting-edge" medical technology that allowed them to become temporarily invincible.<em>

_"Huddah huh?"_

_"…Yes, please," Medic replied, trying with difficulty to discern the fire technician's speech. She placed her Zippo lighter and Saxton Hale comic book down on her chair and left the waiting room, her place card wrinkled and twisted about from frazzled nerves._

_"Sit on the chair, please, and I will make this as quick as possible! Now, for obvious reasons, you are going to have to remove te top of your suit."_

_Wait, what? Shit! __Pyro froze on the medical cot._

_"…Sometime today vould be convenient, Herr Pyro," he voiced as he quickly and carelessly sanitized a scalpel._

_Slowly, she unzipped the top half of her suit and lied down on the gurney. Medic concentrated the Medigun's beam on her chest for the purpose of life support and its analgesic effect. Pyro's figure was masculine enough; she was stout, muscular, and her chest was bound._

_That is, until the doctor effortlessly slashed her chest open. She cringed as she tried to gauge the Medic's reaction from behind her tinted goggles. His face instantly went from casual concentration to incredulity; after a quick study of her chest cavity, this was definitely not one of a male's. Mammary glands, slightly smaller heart, extra tissue on the chest, a bit of a visible uterus. It didn't take a doctor to know that he was performing surgery on a __woman._

_Generally a very careless surgeon, he took a small bit of care avoiding any damage to her uterus. It had been years since he'd performed surgery on a female and he was as rusty as his knives. What if she was nuts and wanted to reproduce? One could never know with the fräuleins. _

_She wondered how she still functioned as she saw Medic expertly snipping her arteries and veins, and it was a extremely surreal for her to see him hold her heart in his very hands. Her heart was jammed with a meter of some sort, charged wildly with some of the Medigun's beams, and tossed back into her chest. After briefly checking if her circulatory system was connected and for any rogue doves, Medic trained the boosted Medigun's beam onto her chest, causing organ cells and fabric molecules to multiply at an astonishing rate._

_The Pyro was finished. Medic held his blood-soaked hand out to her, and she grabbed it with her gloved hand, hoisting herself off of the medical cot and onto the tiled floor. She nodded in appreciation, and lifted the base of her mask._

_"What happens in the operatin' room, stays in the operatin' room, eh? Not a word about this leaves this infirmary. We good, Doc?"_

_Taken a bit aback by her rough voice, Medic nodded affirmatively._

_"Ja, no matter what my, ahem, __experiments__ entail, they are kept in the utmost of secrecy, I assure you…Herr Pyro." He grinned and stuck his hand out, droplets of her blood dripping and collecting in a puddle the floor._

_Pyro smiled in return. "Good. Then we have an understandin', Doc." She pulled the heavy-duty gasmask back over the lower half of her face, and took the Medic's bloody hand in hers for a strong, sturdy handshake. With a nod and wave, the fire-wielder was gone from the room._

* * *

><p>"…And that's how the story goes," she recounted whilst stroking her figurative beard.<p>

"I understand. It is only a matter of time before our colleagues put the pieces together."

"Until then. Hah, how come you got so _jealous _when I said that Medic knew?"

"_Mon Dieu, _jealous? Me? Hardly!" he lied.

"Aw, come on, I saw that look and tone of voice, Mister Spy. You were JEALOUS!" she teased.

"Don't lie to yourself, it's no good. Spies are never envious."

"_Lying to myself? __Hardly!__" _she said gruffly, mimicking the Spy's gravelly timbre.

"I resent that."

"No you don't!" The Spy smirked. No, he really didn't. He didn't very much mind at all.

"No, I don't."

"NO, YOU—wait, _wh__at_?" she asked, a bit confused as to why he turned the tables.

"Nothing." He decided to toy with her, flicking his cigarette butt out onto the busy street. Too bad for whomever it landed on.

The Pyro opened her mouth to reply, closed it slowly, and squinted for a couple of seconds before poking his gut.

"You're toying with me, aren'cha? Blasted spook."

The Spy gave his signature French chortle. He had to admit it, this woman really did appeal to him.

_Was there ever any doubt? _This thought took Spy by surprise—his thoughts were usually organized and in control. He looked over at the headstrong woman next him. She looked serene, watching the bold, vibrant sun set into the vast, dark sky. And she had that smile on her face again, one of her many indescribable smiles that drew him in like no other. He'd always toyed around with women before. Quite honestly, they were attractive creatures with which he enjoyed socializing, flirting, and having sex. Not much else could they offer him.

This one, though. Funny, brainy, fiery, deadly, wow. It didn't help that he found her particularly attractive. Strong muscles, dark hair, round curves, pale, scarred skin. What others saw as flaws, he saw as beauty. This ball of fire made him feel like he was fifteen again, new at "handling" women—not the smooth-operating, handsomely roguish Casanova he thought was.

Spy pushed those thoughts out of his head. For now, he decided, it was time to enjoy the moment.


	7. An Offer They Can't Refuse

_Chapter Seven: An Offer They Can't Refuse_

* * *

><p>After the sun had set, the couple walked back into the hallway.<p>

"Well, goodnight then. I'll see you tomorrow." Pyro waved.

"You as well_," _Spy replied with a quick wave, entering his room. Upon entering, closing the door, and locking it, he leaned against it for some time. Opening his case, he retrieved a cigarette and lit it, deeply inhaling the comforting nicotine. He needed time to think. Saxton Hale was to arrive on Monday and it was already Friday night. Where had the time gone? At least they'd gotten a lot done. Pyro managed to raise her speaking pitch from the level of boisterous young man to modest woman. and she performed rather well in converesation. Unfortunately, she still was not perfect. Unsteady in heels, still slipping back into her accent...but Spy was confident in her ability to perform.

Back at the base, he'd always been interested in knowing what exactly the Pyro was, and the thought of "it" being female had crossed his mind. He didn't actually think the mysterious member of BLU had actually been of the opposite sex, however. The prospect was just too unlikely in his mind.

Unlikely, but not _impossible. _

_Merde._ Why was he assigned to tutor _her _of all people? Why couldn't he have been assigned some female spy that didn't even need grooming? Why had this woman, of all women, caught his eye? It was going to be hell returning to the base and trying to go back to normal after this whole thing blew over. He mentally kicked himself for feeling this way and for getting too close.

Back at the base, Spy struck fear and paranoia into his enemies' very souls. His job was not to physically intimidate, but to get under their skin. He could be anyone, anywhere, at any time. He had to act fickle, ready to betray at the slightest breeze, ready to sap sentries and stab backs. Neve_r really _on your side, always _right behind you_.

The Pyro was used to that, though. She was a tough cookie; she'd slip right back into the routine and forget about this whole thing after the mission, right? She wasn't a very emotional woman. That was how she rolled, despite any feelings she might've had for him. She was mature enough to know that what happened in New York City, stayed in New York City.

Spy took a deep breath and decided to take a solitary walk to sort out his thoughts. As he stepped into the hallway, he spotted something out of the corner of his vision that didn't seem quite right. Instantly, he cloaked with his Cloak and Dagger and waited for the figure to show itself once again.

To his prediction, it did. It was one of the Administrator's trenchcoated messengers with TVs strapped to their chests, making his way to the Pyro's door. The messenger instantly felt the cold blade of the Spy's butterfly knife at his throat.

"What is it you want?" Spy muttered as he decloaked.

The messenger was not allowed to speak and put a finger up to his lips to say so. Spy understood and stepped back. They knocked at Pyro's door and within a few seconds, the door flung open to reveal the mildly surprised woman. She recognized the messenger and let him in. He opened his trench coat and powered the television on. A couple of static-filled seconds later, the Administrator's figure appeared on the screen.

"Ah! For once, my messenger was not brutally slaughtered. It appears that I might save money on these televisions, after all," she cackled. Spy and Pyro quickly glanced at each other.

"Now, mercenaries. I told you I would follow through if the mission was successful. I am here to tell you of the handsome reward you shall receive in the event that you do not fail me." The Administrator pulled up a file, shuffled around for a paper, and pulled it out.

_"And, so. In the event that you two__ successfully__ manage to bodyguard Sir Saxton Hale AND take his would-be assassin in, dead or alive, you shall both receive your year-end paychecks, a parting salary in the sum of ten million US dollars, and a prematurely terminated contract...with absolutely no strings attached."_

Both Spy and Pyro went slack-jawed at this prospect. A no-strings-attached contract with a parting salary that could allow both of them to never work again? It sounded far too good to be true.

"While we are appreciative of such a highly generous reward...how do we know you will keep your end of the bargain?" Spy asked.

"Oh, _Spy_! Accusing me of such a dreadful thing! I would never do anything to endanger ou_r close _friendship, now would I?" the Administrator sneered.

Spy played along. "I suppose."

"Splendid. Remember your incentive now, mercenaries, and I certainly hope you are well-prepared. Because if you _fail _to protect the Mr. Hale…well, we'll discuss that later, shall we? Anyway, I'll be seeing you," she rasped. "_Cut the feed, Pauling._"

The small screen went black as their boss' live broadcast ceased and the messenger's trench coat closed. He nodded and disappeared nimbly, without a trace.

Several minutes of silence passed as the pair stood still, absorbing what they'd just been told. Pyro was the first to react, holding her head in her hands.

"Uh...what? What the actual fuck just happened?"

For once, not even the Spy was quite clear on what had just taken place. Was that woman _serious_? Was she really going to cut their contract just like that? It seemed very fishy to him, for her to just give them such a downright _substantial _reward. Then again, he'd done plenty of digging—she and Saxton Hale went way back, even dated at one point. For her to be so protective (and slightly bitter) about the whole thing didn't come as much of a surprise.

"I am not as certain as I would like to be. It seems very, what's the word, _strange? Fishy? _For her to be simply giving us such a generous reward. But of course, she and the slab of mustachioed Australian muscle mass were very close at one point in time."

"So I've heard. This is really, uh. Really some food for thought," she muttered.

"You can say that again."

"This is really some food for thought," she said impishly.

"Such a rapier wit," Spy snorted. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Not backstab me, I hope."

"Of course I wouldn't."

"Yeah? Why wouldn't you?"

"For obvious reasons, of course."

"And what are those reasons, huh?" Pyro playfully urged, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction.

Well, she was a teammate first and foremost. And a woman that piqued his interest very much.

"They are such obvious reasons that pointing them out to you would just be an insult to your intelligence," he fired back matter-of-factly. At this, Pyro simpered, deciding to cut him short again. Oh boy, that would throw him for a loop. He wasn't the only one could toy.

"Yeah, you're right. Okay, fair enough."

_Okay, fair enough? __Just like __"seems legit?" __This shit again? _He'd expected some sort of fiery retort and even had another prepared. Why was this woman so maddeningly hard to predict?

"Well, I'm gonna head back inside, for real this time—as long as there isn't another messenger waiting to pop out at us," she said, still in deep thought from the proposition.

"Oui, as will I," Spy agreed, with a wave. "_Bonsoir."_

"Bonsoir!" she replied, with a short wave in return. At that, she closed the door. Spy stuffed his gloved hands in his pockets and walked back to his room.

He had a lot to think about.


	8. Headaches, Bubblegum, and Cousin Schlomo

_Chapter Eight: Headaches, Bubblegum, and Cousin Schlomo_

* * *

><p>Golden beams of Saturday morning sunlight streamed through the sizable window, casting a variety of shadows on the masculine figure sleeping on the mattress. As soon as said sleeping figure awoke, however, he was graced with the most splitting headache he'd ever had the pleasure of having. Pulsating pain wracked his brain as he opened his eyes and wished he hadn't. What should have been calming rays of warm sun were like searing bullets, making his migraine far worse. A car horn outside sounded like someone screaming in his ear, causing him to grimace and clutch his pained head. What had warranted such an agonizing affliction?<p>

Well, as he was wont to do, he'd been thinking a lot.

If that flaky boss of his kept true to her word, he'd never have to work a day in his life again, nor would the Pyro. They wouldn't have to worry about their "thing" (whatever it was they had) hurting their work life. He was free to do as he pleased, which was precisely the dilemma. Thinking about life with no stability nor consistency again made his head hurt.

Slowly rising out of bed, he decided to deal with the pain—he'd been through far worse. He climbed into the shower and blasted the steaming hot water. He ran his fingers through his short, dark hair and massaged his temples, which helped ebb at the throbbing pain. Luckily, by the time he was finished, the pain had diminished a little. As he finished his routine, he made it a point to concentrate on the Pyro's progress for the day, and not let his inner turmoil or headache get in the way.

* * *

><p>"No, no, no! That is not right at all! You cannot just call other men <em>'BRO'<em>!" he snapped. Hours had gone by and it was now afternoon. The Pyro had made progress, but his headache certainly hadn't.

The woman shot him a sassy look. She was trying as hard as she could and that was the thanks she got?

"Well, excuse me, princess!"

"Oh, please! At this rate, even I am more of one than you are!" he spat. _Yikes._ Was she that bad?

"Forget about princesses, you're acting like a bona fide drama queen! Geez, what's gotten into you today? You're not yourself."

A brief moment of silence passed before he answered.

"If you'd really like to know, I feel as though I've been shot in the head."

At this, Pyro had the audacity to laugh, which drove Spy mad.

"May I ask you what you find so _amusing_?" he growled.

"For someone as astute as you, I would've thought that you'd taken something like aspirin. Did you not?" she asked with a small smirk.

_Oh._

"…Well."

"No?"

"No."

"Then don't act all prissy on me just because you have a headache, especially if you haven't even taken some aspirin! You've got to take care of yourself, you know."

"And where do you suggest we obtain such medication?"

"Well, we could go to the shop downstairs, but it's pretty much highway robbery. Like, who wants to pay ten dollars for a few aspirin? Yeah, nobody. Let's go to the convenience store a few blocks away. I feel like getting out for some fresh air, what about you?"

"Do I have much of a choice?"

"Nope."

* * *

><p>Doorbells jingled as the scent of coffee, bubblegum, and newspaper print filled the mercenaries' olfactory nerves. Unfortunately, the duo did not have the forethought to give the Spy a disguise while walking into a convenience store. After spending years in a secluded military base, they'd almost forgotten how they looked to outsiders. Instantly they remembered that Spy's balaclava combined with his pressed Dior suit was not exactly innocuous-looking; in fact, he looked like a mob capo ready to raid an unsuspecting Quick-Mart.<p>

"ROBBAH! ROBBAH! WE GOT A ROBBAH IN HEAH!" hollered the young clerk, grabbing a pistol from underneath the counter.

"Wait, no!" shouted Pyro in an attempt to reason. "We're not here to rob your store!"

"HOW DO I KNOW THAT?" the clerk screamed, tears in her eyes.

"We aren't even armed!" Come see for yourself!"

The clerk gingerly approached them with her pistol, and with both of their hands in the air, patted them down thoroughly.

"A-alright. You guys are okay…" she shuddered, putting the pistol back and returning to her position behind the counter.

"Thank you. Now, what we did come for is aspirin. Where do you guys sell that?"

The young, gum-smacking woman (now filing her nails) looked towards an aisle, and nodded her head towards it.

"Right ova theah, next to the ACE bandages. Can't miss em."

"Thanks."

The teenaged girl blew a large, pink bubble, blatantly staring at the Pyro the entire time. That woman looked uncannily familiar to her. She turned to the Spy, who was leaning against the counter with his head in his hands, looking nothing short of miserable. Up close, she decided, he was quite handsome, despite his mask. Angular, narrow facial structure, majestic aquiline _schnoz,_ bright baby blues, stubble, an intoxicating hint of aftershave.

_Wow, for a weirdo he sure is a hunk! _she thought. Besides, a little digging never hurt anyone, right? Right.

"So, uh. Ya wife suah is kind, gettin' you asp-rin and all."

"Ah, she is not my wife," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. All the screaming had done a number on his headache.

"Oh, really now? Is she, uh. Ya fiancée?"

"Non."

"Ya girlfren?"

"Non," he groaned.

"So ya just a swinging bachelor, huh? Hm. Gee, what a shame ya haven't been snatched u—"

"_Hiiiiii!_ I apologize for keeping you guys waiting for so long!" Pyro laughed as she abruptly entered the one-sided conversation with a box of Bayer, fully aware of what had just taken place. She was not normally the jealous type, but who was this girl and what right did she have hitting on the Spy? She knew she was being protective of someone who wasn't even hers, but there were plenty of handsome spies. This spy was _her _Spy.

As the girl rung up the aspirin, she kept her eyes on the Pyro.

"Sorry if I'm starin' like a freak, haha. But you, uh…you really look familiah. Do I know ya?" she asked, pointing a long, manicured finger at her.

Pyro's eyes flickered up from her purse to the cashier. Now that she mentioned it, she also rung a bell.

"Wait a sec," the cashier said. "Didja happen ta grow up in Rego Pawrk?"

"Uh—"

"OH MY GAWD, IT'S YOU! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S YOU, BA—"

"SSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH!" Pyro waved her arms about.

"Why you shushin' me, Barb, I know it's you! You've changed, but—"

"Damnit, Nadine! I'm undercover!" Pyro groaned. "Don't spout my information everywhere, geez!"

"OHH MY GAWD, I'M SAWRRY. What are you, a fancy-schmancy secret agent now? So that's where ya went. Must be lotsa fun. Very exciting!"

"Exciting my ass. I'm afraid I can't—"

"Yeah, yeah, you can't tell me nothin'. That's okay, I undastand how it is," she said, smiling knowingly.

"How's Queens?"

"Queens? Ah, it's alright, ya know. Not much's changed. Ya family misses ya bunches, they send you lotsa kisses." Nadine grabbed Pyro's face from across the counter and kissed both of her cheeks multiple times.

"One for daddy, and mommy, and me, and ya little sister, and ya dawg, and Auntie Ruthie, and Grandma Estha, and Pap-Pap Danny, and ya cousin Schlomo, especially. Rememba him, of course ya do, it's Schlomo. You can neva forget Schlomo. Oof, what a character he is. He got accepted into NYU, that kid is GOIN' places! Gawd, ya know, I didn't even recognize you! You look ab-so-lute-ly GAHWGEOUS now! And ya smell great too, is that Channel 5 you're wearin' or is it Channel 11? I can never keep track. GOSH, ya makeup's so nice, and look at ya dress! It's like you stepped outta Vogue! And ya hair is all flowy and shiny, what's ya secret! It's not even on fiah! Speaking of fiah, things aren't on fiah as much since you left. Yeah, the fiah department gets a break. I miss the smell of smoke sometimes, know what I mean?"

The older woman sighed and chuckled in nostalgia at the younger's woman's nonstop gushing about their hometown. "Yeah, I bet. Thanks, and don't tell anyone you saw me, okay? That'll blow my cover. Call me Phoebe O'Brien."

"What, you an Irish gal now? You ain't even much of a ginge," she observed with crossed arms, popping the gum in her mouth.

"Yeah, I know, but it's my undercover identity. Don't forget, okay? I'll see you around, Nay."

"You got it. Well, thanks fa shappin' at Quick-Mart...Mizz O'Brien!"

Pyro grinned, nodded, and dragged the Spy out the door, bells jingling in their wake.

* * *

><p>Once back in the Pyro's room, the Spy had taken the liberty of sitting sprawled out over the couch. His partner, deciding to be courteous, got him a glass of water.<p>

"Here you are," she said, handing him the glass of water along with two pills. She sat down in the place next to him, patting his leg reassuredly.

"Merci beaucoup, chérie," he uttered, downing the pills with a swig of water. If even possible, his headache had intensified until that point. After consuming the painkillers, he shut his eyes and leaned back.

"Anytime, don't mention it. I wonder why you have such a migraine." she wondered aloud. He hesitated before answering.

"Well…what do you plan on doing _afterwards if _our contract is cut short?"

"Well, I'll probably go back home, give my family some of my earnings, and we can all move to a huge mansion and have a real fancy-schmancy life," she teased. "But, uh, I'm not concerned with that now. I have to think about the present, you know? Can't worry too much about things out of my control. My main goal is getting shit done, and getting it done right, and that's what I'm gonna do. Worry about the now, focus on the mission. Seize the day, carpe diem."

Spy opened his eyes and faced his teammate. Somehow, even though he'd thought of the very same topic that morning, the thought of taking things day by day never crossed his pained mind. He was always a worrier about the future. Without something constant in his life, he felt unsure of himself, and while being a mercenary for BLU provided a steady consistency, that was probably going to end soon. He didn't know what he was going to do with his life; he wasn't even sure he wanted to continue being a spy. However, she'd managed to say just the things that put him at ease.

"Merci beaucoup. Once again."

"Huh? For what?"

"My headache is mostly gone."

"Heh. Gotcha the extra-strength stuff."

"It was not so much the medication, so much as it was your advice."

"Aw, thanks. Means a lot. I'm guessing you don't know what you're going to do with yourself after this whole ordeal is over with, huh?"

"Precisely."

"Well, follow my advice. We'll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, though, if you're feeling that much better, let's get out of here. It's Saturday night in one of the greatest cities in the world. Let's find something to do!"


	9. Jazz Hands

_Chapter Nine: Jazz Hands_

* * *

><p>"And what do you suggest?" Spy asked, sitting up and lighting a cigarette. Thankfully, his headache had mostly dissipated, thanks to the aspirin and his partner's handy advice.<p>

"Well...do you like jazz?" Pyro inquired, tapping her fingers together.

"Very much so."

"Marvelous, I know just the place. Follow me!" The woman grinned excitedly and started towards the door; upon reaching it, she held it open for the Spy. Before following suit, the Spy decided to grab his Ambassador and take it along with him as a sort of afterthought. A proper Spy could never be too cautious, even for just a night on the town.

The two stepped into the elevator and after the quick ride down, cut across the lobby and exited through the hotel's ornate doors. Once again, they silently began walking the streets of Park Avenue. They made their way through Manhattan towards West 42nd Street arriving at an area with which Spy was familiar, though not nearly as familiar as the Pyro. Suddenly, she stopped short in front of a lively, bustling bar.

"What are you doing?" Spy asked as he quirked his brow and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"Watch me."

She squatted, opened the unlocked metal doors from the sidewalk, and quickly beckoned for her partner to join her descent down the dimly-lit staircase, making sure to close said door above her.

"Now may ask what exactly we are doing down here?"

"You shall see. My, my, so many questions," she joked, in mimicry of the Spy. He rolled his eyes.

Pyro knocked on the heavy-duty steel door that was a bit further into the basement, garnering an answer from the man behind it.

"You the cat's pajamas?" came the gravelly voice from beyond.

"Nope, the bee's knees," she answered confidently. There was shuffling, muttering, and rustling before the door creaked open to reveal a towering black man that looked as though he were the love child of the Demoman and the Heavy.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here! If it ain't Little Miss Babs from Queens! How long has it been now?" he asked.

"About five years, I'd say! Good to see you, Fat Cat. How's the club doing, how's life treating you?"

"Mmm, Lord knows I can't complain. My, have you changed! Why, I barely recognize you. Guess you got tired of frequentin' the club with combat boots and yer hair on fire."

"Not exactly," she snickered, "Gotta act ladylike for a certain assignment, gotta stay on the DL. Meet my partner, he goes by 'Spy'. Fat Cat, Spy, Spy, Fat Cat."

The two men firmly shook hands.

"Bonsoir, pleased to meet you," nodded Spy politely.

"Likewise. Say…you from New Orleans?"

"Non, I hail from France."

"Oh, a bona fide Frenchman! Guess you don't stand on a corner of the French Quarter in a beret, eatin' beignets and jammin' out on the sax."

"Sorry to disappoint you; I am an accordionist," Spy informed him, tapping the ash from the end of his burning cigarette.

"You are, now? Well how about a good ol' jam with our guys here tonight, whaddya say? New faces are always welcome, and lucky for you, we could use an accordion guy."

Spy glanced at the Pyro, who smiled. Randomly jam with a bunch of people he didn't know, in front of an audience—for free?

"Go for it," she said in encouragement.

"And what about you?" Spy asked.

"Well, I don't know," she said, chuckling. "Would Fat Cat let me jam tonight with the big boys?"

"You know I can't never say no to a _lady_, now can I? Come now, we're about to have the jam of a lifetime!"

Fat Cat led them both towards a crowded room filled with people waiting for their show to start.

"That's yours for tonight, brotha," Fat Cat pointed a lone accordion out to Spy, "And you know the drill, Little Miss Babs."

"Phoebe O' Brien for now," she corrected. "And he's Fabio. They're our aliases."

"Gotcha, Phoeebs."

"You have performed for free?" Spy asked the woman next to him, as he doffed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He hadn't laid hands on an accordion for the longest time; he'd only hoped his skills hadn't dulled too much.

"Yeah, many times. I do it for the love of music, not for any profit," she replied, carefully turning the guitar's machine heads to tune the strings. "Besides, we're just jamming out, having fun. Not really playing anything set in stone, you know?" She slung the guitar strap over her shoulder and readied her position.

Spy used to perform with his instrument on the street when he was much younger, before he began professional spying, but always for a profit. He'd never thought of performing for free, or simply for the sake of playing music for or with others. His train of thought was cut short, however, as Fat Cat began banging on a cowbell to call for the audience's attention.

"Attention, lovely guests! We have our usual lineup on this fine evening, but let's give a warm welcome to our guests Phoebe O'Brien on electric axe, and accordionist...uh, Fabio!"

The crowd of roughly forty guests clapped quietly, anxiously awaiting their dosage of jazz.

The drummer started off with a steady beat that immediately set the Pyro to work on a cadenza. She spouted off jazz chords and several riffs with grace notes thrown in for kicks. It was not long before she was joined by the saxophonist, the Spy's accordion, and the rest of the jazz ensemble.

Spy realized that the muscle memory he'd lost quickly returned to him. It'd been so long since he'd laid a hand on an instrument, and now here he was, jamming away. Meanwhile, the Pyro went back and forth with the electric bassist. At one point during one of Pyro's solos, she made eye contact with the Spy.

_Does she want me to..?_

The Pyro nodded and smiled as if she could read his thoughts. She finished her solo and the Spy took over with jazz chord arpeggios, quickly segueing into the song's melody. His fingers moved with a brisk alacrity. When he finished, the crowd applauded and the saxophonist took over. He looked at his partner from across the stage and noticed that the smile she gave him was unlike any he'd seen before from her. This was one of pride; she seemed thoroughly and genuinely impressed. Spy could tell and in that moment felt like a teenager again, one who had impressed a girl he crushed on for the first time. A new invigoration coursed through his veins; he was determined to play his absolute best.

For several hours they carried on, taking requests from the increasingly-eager crowd and testing out new types of playing styles. White-hot stage lights rained down on the performers and covered them in a thin sheen of sweat as they jammed the night away on their small stage. Unfortunately, time had flown particularly fast that night, and it had gotten late before they'd realized it. Pyro checked her watch in between sets and stood up reflexively.

"Oh my God, what? It's already three in the morning! Sorry, but I gotta split, my man."

"But the night is young, Littl—I mean, Miss O'Brien. There were times you wouldn't leave until the sun rose!"

"Damn it, as much as you know I'd love to, I can't stay that late. I'm expecting a big visit later, and I've gotta be prepared. You dig?"

"I understand, I do. You be careful, now, ya hear? Make sure Fabio here's gotcher back!"

"I'm not worried about it," she laughed, facing the pinstripe-clad man who was putting his jacket back on. "Ready to go, Fabio?"

"TOTALLY, SWEETCHEEKS!"

* * *

><p>The walk back to the hotel felt longer than the walk to the underground club as they, unbeknownst to themselves, were walking at a much slower speed. The pair had wanted to enjoy each others' company for as long as they possibly could that night; it was brisk out and the two were running on performers' highs. Pyro broke the silence.<p>

"_Damn,_ I didn't know you were that good," she breathed.

"What do you mean?"

"At the accordion. You sounded so...wow. You play like a master!"

"Ah, merci beaucoup, chèrie. I could easily say the same for you. Emotional playing with superior technical mastery of the instrument, for sure."

"Wait, what? Really? Nah, I'm just an amateur, playin' around for fun. I'm not that great."

"Non. Such a loud and ferocious instrument, played well enough to fit perfectly into such an elegant style of music as jazz? Reminds me of you."

She couldn't help but giggle. "Yeah, nice analogy there. Such a flatterer, you."

At that point, the two had stopped walking altogether and were looking at each other instead of ahead of them. As her eyes met his, her heart leapt into her throat and she felt her breath catch. Was this going to be it? The moment where her dreams literally came true? She felt herself gravitating towards him and getting closer; this was it. At long last—

_CRASH! _Unfortunately, they'd stopped in front of a dark alleyway on a relatively deserted street. A masculine figure jumped out at them, running into a few garbage cans.

The sudden attack took the Pyro by surprise, something she absolutely loathed. She was the one who was supposed to do all the surprising and ambushing. She was annoyed at herself for getting caught off-guard like this.

"Gimme your damn wallet, and nobody gets hurt," the perpetrator breathed.

As she quickly patted herself down, Pyro's heart sunk. _Are you kidding me? Really? Of course the one time I get jumped, __I'm not even fucking armed. Of all times not to be! If only I had my flamethrower, I could fry this punk up._

She quickly whirled around to face her partner who, unsurprisingly, had a smug grin on his face.

"Oh, really? And what if I don't comply with your brash and...ill-directed demands? I'm warning you, boy."

"Then I, uh—kill the girl!" he said, pointing his trembling knife at the Pyro.

Spy'd had a hunch that something like this would happen, but he didn't even have to use his gun—he swiftly uncovered his balisong and began expertly twirling it about in his hand.

"Go right ahead," he shrugged, absentmindedly doing tricks with his knife.

Pyro looked at him incredulously before realizing his plan. Spy only wanted to toy with him, like he did many of his enemies.

The mugger dove straight for the Pyro with his knife, and as soon as he'd leapt, the older man knocked the flimsy weapon right out of his grip. He fell to the floor as his knife clattered into the street, and Spy vaporized into thin air.

"ALRIGHT, WHERE'S THAT MASKED FUCKER? I'M GONNA—"

"Right behind you."

With that, the Spy uncloaked and knocked the attempted robber out with a well-aimed punch to the head, dusting his hands off as the he slumped to the floor.

"Oh dear, I've made quite a mess. What an inconvenience."

Pyro let out a breath that she was unaware she was holding the entire time.

"Tell me about it," she said, stepping around the unconscious figure sprawled on the sidewalk.

"Spies must always be prepared and expect the unexpected."

They walked away from the scene much faster than before, the exhilirating buzz of performing replaced with a cold rush of adrenaline and a dampened mood. When they were almost at the hotel and in a better-lit area, Pyro stopped short and tugged on the Spy's jacket sleeve.

"I, uh, really wanna thank you. You know, for what you did back there, saving me," she stuttered, looking straight down at the sidewalk.

"Of course, chérie. Do not mention it." He noticed the disgruntled look on her face. "Is there something wrong?"

"Ugh, can't I just…you know, carry a pistol or something? God, I felt so helpless. I'm such a fucking idiot," she cringed, disgusted with herself. "I just fucking_ stood _there, stood there like some helpless damsel in distress. I should've decked him right in his ugly fucking face when he came out. I let you do all the work and we're _teammates._ I apologize, I don't know what came over me."

"Don't apologize. You will not be leaving my sight," he assured. "This is not the battlefield in Teufort. If I have defend you from attackers, that is okay. It's part of my mission description, and I don't mind it in the slightest. In fact, I'll have you know I enjoy it. Do not beat yourself up over something like this—besides, if there was ever a woman who knew how to defend herself, it's you."

"I'm not sure whether I should be relieved."

"It is in my job description that I protect you at all times, is it not?"

"It is? I don't remember that being in there."

"Well, I shall show you, then."

When they'd arrived back at the hotel, Spy invited Pyro into his room. He opened his manila file and after a second of paper-sifting, found the paper he was looking for.

"._..Y__ou are also to watch her back for any suspicious citizens and/or employees, protect her from any threats..._" Spy trailed off and glanced up at his partner who purposely averted her gaze from his.

"Yeah, well…fine, whatever. God, I miss having a weapon," she moaned, covering her face with her hands.

"Have some patience. When we encounter the assassin, we will kill him together," he assured her.

"Now I'm looking forward to meeting him, if only it means getting to use my weapons," she laughed dryly. "Although he's been a little too good with hiding. I still haven't even noticed anything suspicious."

"He does not know we are here. We are to be extra vigilant when Saxton Hale arrives tonight and from here on out."

"_He arrives tonight? _Oh right, it's like four. I gotta get going, today's gonna be busy as hell."

"Yes, I shall turn in as well. Good night and sleep well, ma chèrie." Spy snuffed his cigarette into the ashtray and waved as the woman he worked with made her way towards the door.

"Goodnight, and you sleep well too…Fabio."

"LIKE, DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT!"

Pyro giggled a bit before waving and and leaving the room. The both of them slept unusually well that night.


	10. The Arrival of SAXTON HAAAAAALE

_Chapter Ten: The Arrival of SAXTON HAAAAAALE_

* * *

><p>The following morning was the busiest of the week.<p>

Subordinates and assistants of Saxton Hale bustled around the hotel, taking orders and preparing for their boss' arrival. The heavily-muscled Australian mogul would be arriving to lure a supposed assassin into the trap set up by the Administrator and was to host the Fifth Annual Saxxy Awards that would be taking place on Saturday night of that week. Needless to say, more work than ever before was being invested into the Pyro's mannerisms. Both were putting finishing touches on their undercover personalities in the Spy's room.

"No matter how you act in front of Saxton Hale, you must act like a lady whenever you are in the public. You will never know what filthy paparazzi will want to get dirt on you. If they do, our cover will be compromised and the assassin will make his move."

"Basically like wearing my mask back at the base."

"Exactly! Be vigilant, keep on the lookout for anything suspicious, and keep your façade up at all times."

"Got it."

And so it began, morning through afternoon, preparing for the arrival of Sir Saxton Hale.

"From now on, do not break your character, especially not in public. Do just as I've told you."

"Yeah, yeah—uh, yes, sir. You know, you should get into the character of Fabio, as well, shouldn't you?" she smirked.

"Ugh, honey, I've got it! I'm a spah remember? Don't getcher panties in a bunch!"

Pyro smiled, stood up straight, and successfully resisted the urge to laugh, which did not go unnoticed by the Spy.

"Keeping your composure, I see._ Exemplary_."

"All thanks to my lovely assistant!"

"THANKS, GIRLFRIEND. But I _totally _couldn't have done it without your cooperation!"

"True," she replied, laughing airily and mockingly tapping her chin in thought. "I decided to be more cooperative for the sake of the mission. I can't afford to fail the Administrator because, well, I'd probably be killed."

"No, that would be far too easy for her. She would probably torture you, toy with you, do something horrid to you that would mentally scar you for life."

"Come to think of it, that sounds more like her."

"Of course. Now—"

The door suddenly flung open as Mr. Reddy interrupted the Spy with his stumbling entrance, ragged breathing, and hunched-over posture. He'd literally been running around the entire morning, making sure everything would be perfect for the advent of his superior.

"How—are you all—fairing?" he gasped, "Do you require—any—assistance?" he gasped. Pyro gave him a look.

"Even if we did need help, you'd be the last person we'd ask right now. Look at you, incredibly busy right now and you expect yourself to be of any help. Go take a breather and take care of what needs to be taken care of," she said, shooing him towards the door.

Mr. Reddy had no qualms with scuttling off and continuing his mad rush to accomplish the seemingly impossible in an unfairly short time frame.

"He is the one who needs help," Spy scoffed as he exhaled his cigarette smoke.

"Got that right," she snorted.

He gave her a look.

"You're absolutely correct," she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"There we are."

* * *

><p>Hours went by as the duo continued the finishing touches on their guise. As dusk approached, however, they heard a knock on the door. Pyro, after a glance through the peephole, opened the door to reveal a much more composed Mr. Reddy.<p>

"Oh? What brings you here now?"

"We'd like to extend an invitation to the two of you to a celebratory dinner to congratulate everyone on the success of preparing for the big event."

The two nodded, took a grand total of two minutes to prepare, and left with Mr. Reddy to one of the restaurants downstairs.

"I feel so high-maintenance," Pyro remarked on as the elevator made its way down to the lobby.

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Reddy.

"You know what I used to do to get ready? Shower and brush my teeth. God, being a woman is such hard work," she remarked as they stepped out of the elevator.

"And that is why you chose to be a mercenary? To avoid the frivolities of womanhood?"

"No, not necessarily. I didn't do this to avoid anything, or spite anyone, or rebel. I just don't make a very feminine woman. It'd be a lot easier for me if I was one, but alas. You already know I'd prefer bashing someone's skull in over applying makeup."

"I know all too well," Spy replied.

The trio walked towards the restaurant, and upon entrance, found a portion of Hale's staff sitting at a long table. They took their seats and Pyro made sure she got to sit on the end, next to the Spy. A sommelier soon visited the table and asked if they wanted apéritifs or wine.

"Hm. I'm not too acquainted with wines; could you give me a recommendation?" Pyro asked as she skimmed the menu.

"It depends, miss. What sort of flavors are you looking for?"

The Pyro wasn't much of a wine-drinker. Unsure of what to do exactly, she chose to play it safe.

"What's a nice, sweet champagne?" she decided after several seconds of staring at the menu.

"May I suggest a vintage 1955 Dom Pérignon?"

"Sure, I'll take that," she said, wondering if she would like it at all.

"And for you, sir?" he asked, turning to Spy.

"A white-grape wine, something dry and light. What do you recommend?"

"We have an Amontillado sherry that's just begging to be uncorked, sir."

"Lovely. That will do."

The drinks soon arrived and Spy, upon reciept, gently swirled his glass for a couple of seconds before taking a sip. Reluctantly, Pyro took a sip of her drink and found that it wasn't so bad after all. While she nursed her drink, however, Spy had downed his full glass in a couple of minutes.

Now, unfortunately for Spy, he was what one would consider a "lightweight". He had a very low tolerance for alcohol and thus took measures to prevent intoxication. He was relatively well-versed in fine wine and avoided drinking too much. Unluckily for him, the unfamiliar sherry he'd been recommended had a larger percentage of alcohol than normal wine by a wide margin. While not significantly inebriated, he realized too late that it had only taken one glass to put him in an uninhibited state of mind.

Meanwhile, the waiter had arrived to take orders for the main course.

"May I take your order?" asked the waiter, as he made his way to the woman on the end of the table. Feeling bold, Pyro decided to order something out of her comfort zone.

"I might as well try something new tonight. I'll have the squid-ink truffle risotto," she said, pointing to the item on said menu.

'Excellent choice, madam. And for you, sir?" he turned to the man next to her.

Spy chuckled and pointed to the one item Pyro had hoped he'd never order.

"I weel 'ave…I weel 'ave ze escargoh," he declared, his accent much thicker than usual.

Pyro quickly slapped her hand over her mouth and turned to face her partner. For some reason, she found his request humorous.

'Eez zer a problème, ma chérie?' he asked, turning to her and shrugging. "_What eez wrong with ze snails?_"

Her chortles ceased as she grabbed Spy by the arm, smiled sweetly to the rest of their company, and politely excused them from the table. Once outside the restaurant, she grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Are you out of your mind? _Are you drunk__?_" she hissed.

"I am not drunk," he whispered, "I am just feeling very brave. Buuuuuuut it seems as though you are jealous," he slurred, satisfied with his inane conclusion.

"God, I didn't know you were such a lightweight," she groaned, holding her head in her hands. Noticing his silence, she looked up at him. The way he looked at her made her heart skip a beat.

"What the hell is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something stuck in my teeth, or—"

"_Vous l'air si tres belle ce soir, ma chèrie,_" he breathed huskily. _You look so very beautiful tonight, dear. _Pyro only needed a few key words.

"Th-thats the wine speaking," she mumbled. That sack of trouble couldn't even handle his liquor properly.

"I am being serious!" he said defensively, "_Je pourrais vous __embrasser__ dès maintenant_!"

"What are you saying? Speak English!"

"But I am!"

"You are not! You're babbling in French!"

"_Ne sois pas bête_! _Je parle anglais_!"

"There you go again! My God, you can't even—"

The Spy would never know what it was that he "couldn't even" do, as in that moment, he cupped his partner's pale face in his hands and kissed her. His lips captured hers in a soft, sudden, and lingering exchange. Spy moved back a bit to gauge her reaction and saw one of utter surprise.

"Oh…oh, oh my God, we…we just," she began, brushing her fingers against her lips. "We…we can't do that again. How—"

"But as you always say, seize the day!"

After coming out of her brief state of shock, Pyro looked up at him.

"You…you took my lipginity!" she whispered harshly.

"_Excusez-moi?_"

"That was my very first kiss!"

"Oh my, that was your first kiss?" He chuckled. "Well, then—tell me about your second one!"

"I—"

The handsome rogue struck once again, kissing the unruly ball of fire this time with passionate ardor. He embraced her tightly and he noticed that the Pyro did not pull back. In fact, she had wholeheartedly returned the favor, squeezing him and engaging in the kiss as well. After a full 30 seconds, she finally broke the kiss and opened her eyes, gasping for air and very dazedly regaining her composure.

"I-I, uh, yeah. Okay, yeah, there you go, there you have it," she muttered in a flustered, dazzled manner. "My second kiss. And don't you dare go for a third, young man, I know you have to be absolutely _wasted__ right now _a-and what we're doing is absolutely _reprehe—reprehensible, _and—"

"My sweet, I am not _wasted _as you so call it. Like I said, I simply drank a bit too much courage juice and am feeling _quite _courageous on this lovely evening with an absolutely lovely woman!"

"Are you ever," she sighed, shaking her now-light head. "Now march yourself back in there, eat your little French snails, and no more wine for you!"

"But—"

"NO BUTS!"

"Have it your way, chèrie."

* * *

><p>The two strolled back into the restaurant to see their food had already arrived.<p>

"It's gotten a bit cold," Mr. Reddy remarked with a twinge of regret.

"I couldn't care less. I'm famished." Pyro sat down, remembered her table etiquette, and began her entree in the most ladylike manner she could muster. As for Spy, who had sobered up just a tad, he ate his snails in silence and suddenly demanded wine with them.

"Give him grape juice, please," she whispered to the waiter.

"Understood, madam," he said as he nodded in empathy and fetched the Spy his faux-wine.

When handed his juice, Pyro leaned in a bit to see if her partner would recognize that the wine was, like him, a spy. After a sip, though, he declared it was, "A bit too sweet, but not altogether unpleasant. Not the worst I've ever tasted." He shrugged and sipped some more.

She sighed in relief and continued her meal in peace knowing that her lightweight partner was on a track to no longer being inebriated. Despite the fact that it was arguably one of the most thrilling and enjoyable experiences of her life, what had happened earlier could compromise the mission. They would at least have to try to hold off on their actions.

By the time coffee and a bit of dessert was in order, it was quite late. Between the food and time elapsed, the Spy had sobered considerably at that point. Hearing a groan from the man next to her, Pyro turned to see a hand covering his face.

"Well, hello there. How are you feeling now, Demo?" she joked, at her other teammate's expense.

"I've made an utter fool of myself, haven't I?" he said. She smiled gently and turned to him.

"If I could've chosen anyone to take my lipginity, it would've been you, anyway. I regret nothing," she snickered.

Spy smirked a bit at that word._Lipginity__. _It was so weird, unheard of, silly. Just like her.

"That kiss could not have been anything less than horrid, I'm sure."

She gave him a satisfied smile. "Trust me, it was the furthest thing from horrid."

"Then you should see me when I am not drunk," he whispered throatily.

"Oh?" She gave him a sly grin. "We shall see later, then. You're on."

The coffee had arrived along with small petit fors for dessert. Pyro ate hers and nursed her coffee. It wasn't particularly good, but her newfound table manners taught her to suck it up and drink it anyway. Hopefully it would help her teammate out some.

When the clock struck 10:45, Mr. Reddy asked for the bill to be put on the tab, and the entire party rose and filed out of the restaurant. They took the elevator and stepped outside onto the roof to see a large helipad set up. Luckily, the wind was not very strong on that warm, dry August night.

"Are you ready?" Spy asked his partner, giving her a sideways glance.

"More than ever. Are you, Fabio?" she teased.

"Totes. I've got it aaaaalllll under control!"

Several minutes went by as the sudden noise of helicopter blades cutting through the air echoed in the night. Dust was kicked up into the sky as a burly Australian hung from the helicopter's skids, holding something large and furry in his arms. He let go and landed onto the ground with a graceful _thud_. After he looked around a bit, he spotted the woman that was to be his and promptly approached her.

"EVENING, SHEILA," he said, looking her up and down. "NO MOUSTACHE THAT I CAN SEE. AH, NO PROBLEM, YER NOT AN AUSSIE. IT'S TO BE EXPECTED. WELL, I'VE BROUGHTCHA A LI'L GIFT HERE, YOU SEE." He revealed the furry mass to be a fresh, gory, brutally mauled grizzly bear and giddily extended the item out to out to the woman.

Despite the others' majorly grossed-out reactions, she smiled brightly at the grotesque animal corpse. The Pyro was actually indeed quite a fan of Saxton Hale's comic book series—she kept a few on hand back at the base for when she was overtaken by boredom. Needless to say, she was a bit star-struck.

"This…" she said in genuine amazement. "Wow. This is awesome. And you know what's even more awesome?

"WOT?"

"Your chest hair! It's even better in person!"

_"YOUR CHEST HAIR!__" _Those words reverberated loudly throughout his mind, music to his ears. Slowly, a smile grew on Saxton Hale's face that could light ten thousand cities.

"AHH, I KNEW I'D LIKE YE!" he bellowed, extending his oversized, robustly muscled arm out to the Pyro. "HOW 'BOUT WE SHOW THAT FRUITY KILLA NOT TO MESS AROUND WITH SAXTON HAAAALE!"

Pyro looked up at her undercover companion, took his arm with both of hers, and beamed.

"YES, LET'S!"


	11. Hypergraphia

_Chapter Eleven: Hypergraphia_

* * *

><p>With some degree of difficulty, the burly Australian managed to link arms with the woman who was a third of his size. As the group made their way down the steps of the roof and into the cramped elevator of the last floor, Saxton spoke.<p>

"REMIND ME WHY WE'RE GOING TO THE LOBBY AGAIN, REDDY! THAT DOESN'T SEEM TO MAKE MUCH SENSE! YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT PLENTY OF PEOPLE WILL BE HOUNDING AFTER ME."

"A-ah, we're retrieving your room key as an excuse to scour the group of paparazzi for any subtle signs of suspicion, sir. It's part of our plan to _take care _of the suspect."

"ALL RIGHT, SEEMS LEGIT. CARRY ON," he proclaimed, marching towards the elevator with the gusto only attainable by Saxton Hale himself.

Once inside, Pyro gave Spy a knowing glance. _This is it,_she thought. _T__his is where our real job begins. _Spy interrupted her thoughts by tapping the muscled man in front of him on the back.

"EH WOT?" He turned to face the Frenchman half his size.

"Don't you think you should learn a bit about this woman before encountering a question-hungry crowd of this size? Just in case?"

"HE'S RIGHT. WOT'S YER NAME, SHEILA?"

"Call me Phoebe O'Brien," she replied, rubbing the back of her neck. "I'm 29, from Breezy Point, Queens, and Irish. All you need to know for now."

"WHOI, YOU DON'T LOOK A SPOT OF IRISH!" Saxton gasped, looking taken aback.

"You're really not the first to tell me that."

_Bing!_They'd arrived in the lobby. As soon as the steel doors slid open, flashbulbs went off, questions fired away, and notebooks stuck out from the crowd, anxiously hoping for an autograph.

"AMERICANS, AUSSIES, WANKERMEN," he began. "LEND ME YOUR REARS."

All ears, the cluster silenced, awaiting a response from the celebrity.

"THERE'S GONNA BE A PRESS CONFERENCE TOMORRA MORNIN' AT TEN, SO BRING YOURSELVES IF YOU'D LIKE PICTURES AND YOUR QUESTIONS ANSWERED. OTHER THAN THAT, CARRY ON! AIN'T NOTHIN' TO SEE HERE!_"_

A brief moment of silence was shared before a voice piped up from within the audience.

"If that's so, Mr. Hale, then who's that woman standing next to you?"

"THIS HERE'S MY NEW LADY FRIEND. NAME'S O'BRIEN_—PHOEBE O'BRIEN!_"

A quiet gasp was shared amongst the crowd before a loud explosion of flashbulbs and questions fired off once more. Suddenly, another voice piped up from within the elevator.

"EXCUSE ME, CAN YOU GUYS LIKE, STOP BEING SO RUDE AND PUSHY? THIS ISN'T A BARN HERE, KAPISH? WE'RE NOT ANIMALS. WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE BECOMING?"

Despite the volume of the reporters' questions, _Spy's—_ahem,_Fabio's _voice resounded throughout the lobby.

"Who are _you_?" called the voice of another nosy journalist. Spy stepped into view, completely and very convincingly disguised as a stylist. He scoffed and rolled his eyes, as if he expected them to know already.

"Ms. O'Brien's stylist and assisstant, um, duh! Now shoo, you nosy little urchins! These poor, poor people have had a long day and they just wanted to get their room keys! So inconsiderate!" he huffed, running his fingers through his wig impatiently.

"ER, YE! YOU HEARD HIM, BLOKES, MOVE ALONG, MOVE ALONG. NOTHIN' TO SEE HERE."

Thus the once-thriving crowd began to disperse. Saxton and his team made their way towards the front desk, and upon retrieving a key to the fanciest suite available, headed back to the elevator to go upstairs.

"Have a good night, Mr. Hale. Tomorrow is a busy day," Pyro bade him as she made sure to drop him off safely in his room.

"PLEASE, SAXTON IS FINE IN PRIVATE," he attempted to whisper.

"Saxton," she said, the name itself feeling very strange on her tongue. "Goodnight, and please be careful!"

"THAT ASSASSIN HASN'T GOT A CHANCE IN BLOODY HELL! GOODNIGHT TO YOU AS WELL, SHEILA!"

With that, the two split, Pyro swiftly and carefully making her way down the quiet hallway to her room. She heard Saxton's voice booming even from inside his room, shortly followed by the loud sound of a forceful punch, and rubble subsequently crumbling to the floor. She shook her head, smiled, and continued down the corridor. In front of her door, she sensed a subtle shift in the air nearby and looked around.

"Oh, come out already," she muttered with a smirk. Pyros were naturals at sensing the presence of spies. Just as she'd expected, the Spy's figure melted into view right before her eyes, revealing the man she'd spent the past week with.

"Shall we discuss the events of tonight?" she asked.

"Most definitely," he replied, following the Pyro into her room.

"Okay," she began. " So that little run-in with the press. I wasn't the only one who noticed that _creep _in the weird red suit and bowler hat near the back, right?"

"Also wearing a sort of mysterious backpack, older than dirt," he scoffed.

"Yeah! At first, I thought it could've been the RED Spy, but then I was like, no, that can't be him, he wears a mask, he's too young, why the fuck would he even be here, yadda yadda, you catch my drift."

"Yes, definitely a suspect. Tomorrow, at the press conference, I will spot him once again and do what I do best," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Wow, you're going to actually be a_real spy _for once?"

"Believe it or not, ma chèrie, I am an actual master of espionage. It is all part of the job for me. I am simply a bit concerned as I have no background knowledge whatsoever on this character."

"You'll do fine," she assured, patting his arm. Spy gave her a quizzical look.

"For all we know, this man could be highly unstable and unpredictable. What evidence do you have to support the conclusion that I will do fine?"

"I don't have any. I'm saying it to placate you and boost your confidence. Did it work?" she said with a chuckle.

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"You—you bet," she said while yawning. It'd just hit her that it was very late and she'd had a remarkably busy day.

"Well, it is getting quite late. I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave," he replied, observant of her body language. Spy's past 24 hours were no less forgiving and he'd hoped to wake up the next morning without many repercussions of that night.

Pyro was about to say something, but quickly discarded the notion as something _else_ she'd had in mind would be far more effective. She couldn't believe she, of all people, was actually thinking about doing things like _that_. She realized that the Spy must've held some feelings for her if he found her desirable enough to kiss. He must've found her attractive, at the very least.

The Pyro could only hope that the Spy wasn't playing with her feelings.

In the dark room lit only by the bright lights of the bustling city, the two gazed into each other's eyes and found themselves hopelessly lost. Pyro felt her partner's strong hands wrap around the small of her waist and she reflexively did the same. Slowly, they both moved closer and closer to one another before finally locking lips. Unlike the first two kisses that were both rushed, this one had a much different feel to it that Pyro couldn't quite put her finger on. Perhaps it was the setting and the conditions—this kiss was far more slow, loving, and sensual.

She realized in that moment that her partner was indeed correct. No matter how good the first two kisses had been, his sobriety correlated with the quality of said kisses. For one of the only times in her life, the hardened woman was left both breathless and speechless. They lingered quite comfortably in each other's arms for a time before Pyro remembered that she had to leave.

"I've got to go. Bonsoir," she whispered with a shy smile.

_A shy smile I see?_ Spy thought in mild surprise. _On the Pyro? I never thought I would live to see the day. _

"Bonsoir, ma chèrie."

Pyro closed the door and leaned against it, putting her hands to her lips in disbelief. She'd had her first three kisses in the span of just one night. Had that really just happened? Her dreams literally came true? What would people back home say about her finally kissing someone? Was she even truly ready for these things_? Better late than never, she supposed._

With that thought, the Pyro entered her room, quickly undressed, and threw herself onto her bed. She was going to give herself time in bed to let the night's events sink in, but she was asleep before she knew it. That night, however, held no strange dreams for her. The dreams she did have were pleasant, enjoyable, and oddly enough, did not include her masked mate.

* * *

><p><em>BZZZZT! <em>The abrupt trill of the alarm clock jarred the woman sprawled on the bed out of her peaceful slumber. Another day, another run through the stylists.

"My, your hair was so damaged!" remarked the hairdresser, scrubbing Pyro's head in the running sink. "What did you even do to it?"

"Been burned a lot, fried a lot. I'm a pyrotechnician, what do you expect?" she shrugged. She never had to worry about her hair when she had her gas mask on. It wasn't like anyone saw it.

Not before long, however, the time was almost ten and Pyro was going down an elevator alongside Spy, ready to face the crowd.

"Are you ready?" he asked, glancing at the woman next to him.

"Hey, if I can slaughter a team of men and become a dainty little lady in the same week, I think I can do this, right? Bring it on," she sniffed.

"Good luck."

Once again, the doors opened and Spy led her to a large conference room with a long table already set up. Pyro sat and Spy stood next to her, and as reporters and paparazzi milled around, the time inched closer to ten—without Saxton Hale.

"_Where's Saxton_?" she whispered worriedly. Mr. Reddy and several other employees entered the room and made their way towards the table, but there was no sign of the man of the hour.

"He should be here any second."

As if on cue, the wall burst, and forth came Saxton Hale in all his Australian, moustachioed glory. The Pyro shielded her face from the debris and rubble that flew all over the place, and Saxton nonchalantly ambled over to the table.

"HERE I AM, MATES_—_AND LADY." he announced proudly. A nearby hotel employee started yelling over the damage, but Saxton shooed him off and promised to pay for the damage at a later date.

"About time," she murmured. "Let's get this over with."

The clock struck ten and the press conference began. And, for the next hour or so, Saxton and the Pyro answered questions, kept their cool, and generally did quite well in the department of keeping a façade. Pyro found it a bit difficult to answer rude questions with polite answers, but tried her best not to flip the table over in a blind rage. Sticking to the story also proved to be a small challenge, but this was overcome by Saxton simply yelling, "NO COMMENT, YA NOSY WANKAH!" when he didn't know the answer to something. Spy, however, kept an extremely sharp eye on the crowd; thanks to his skills, he'd spotted the suspect once again.

Ah, true spying. Back in the day, Spy was a true master of espionage, and sometimes even did business for the government in exchange for their overlooking his not-exactly-legal activities. One of the most clandestine figures in the business, not once had he ever been caught in the act whilst spying—and he didn't intend on ever breaking that record.

Spy carefully cloaked, slipped away, and followed the suspect...out the door? Why was he leaving in the middle of the press conference, and where was he going? Was he upset, suspicious that he'd been caught; had he been struck with inspiration of some sort? He must've had something quite important to do, for he made haste while traversing the streets of the city. Finally, the man slipped into a sketchy, run-down townhouse, leaving the door open just a crack. After a nanosecond of hesitation, Spy cautiously followed him in, still cloaked. The interior itself was Bedlam. Riddled with blueprints, papers, and the walls_? __ Mon Dieu._


	12. Mann, oh Mann

_Chapter Twelve: Mann, oh Mann_

* * *

><p><em>Mon Dieu. <em>_The_ words plastered on the walls of the run-down townhouse sent chills down the Spy's very spine. Amongst the throngs of illegible scribbles, he was able to discern certain phrases hastily splattered in red paint.

Spy then noticed that the twisted wreck of a man—who was hooked up to many wires and a contraption on his back—was furiously studying blueprints and tearing what little hair he had left straight out of his head. In that instant, he was fairly sure he'd figured out who the wretched little man in front of him was.

_"W-what is that smell? Smoke, do I smell smoke?" _rasped the decaying voice in a sudden panic.

_Merde. _With a twinge of regret, Spy swiftly slipped out the door and back into the streets. How did such a miserable, decaying being have such an acute sense of smell? He wasn't careful enough, and it'd cost him what could've been valuable information. As the Spy swiftly made his way back to the hotel, he pondered the scene that had unfolded before his eyes and decided to speak with his partner before jumping to any conclusions.

* * *

><p>"THE CONFERENCE IS OVAH, YOU BLOODEH WANKAH! WOT PART OF 'NO MORE QUESTIONS' DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?"<p>

Security guards ushered the crowd out the door as Saxton Hale flipped the table over and ran towards the wall. Predictably, instead of waiting for his turn to leave out the door, he slammed his own hole in the wall and scrambled out. As a flustered Mr. Reddy tried desperately to keep up with his employer, Pyro crossed her arms, watching them with a most amused expression on her face. She'd made her way across the large conference room when, of a sudden, she felt someone grasp her arm. Before she had time to react, the hand yanked her behind a giant column. She whirled around to catch a glimpse of the grabber and simultaneously flung her leg up into their groin area. Unfortunately, due to her inexperience with functioning in heels still, she slipped and fell on her bottom.

"**_Fils de pute!_**" the stranger whispered furiously, dropping his disguise and crumpling to the ground in a pained heap. Pyro's eyes widened considerably upon realizing just whom she had kicked.

"Oh my God! I am so sorry. I didn't know it was you!" she apologized profusely, helping her teammate to his feet and hiding out of sight behind the column.

The only reply she received was a sort of pained, animal-like noise. After a full minute, Spy, (who was still leaning against the wall and his teammate), gained his bearings and managed to form a sentence.

"I imagine—" he started, flinching and taking a sharp breath. "—that I will not be reproducing."

"That hard?" Pyro asked guiltily, biting her lip.

"You are wearing a high heel. You nearly, you—you nearly pierced my testicle," he wheezed, grabbing his crotch.

"Keyword, nearly."

"That—" he inhaled shakily with a grimace. "—does not change the fact that I am in crippling pain."

"God, I'm really sorry. But I mean...you _could've _dropped the disguise before grabbing me like that, you know. How did you expect me to react?"

"I know, I could have been more tactful. I simply needed a way to silently get your attention from a distance," he said, leaning against the wall for a bit. Feeling slightly better, he adjusted his tie and stood up straight. Not quite his usual ramrod straight, but it would have to do.

"Anyway, I am here with you because I have found what I believe could be crucial information." Pyro raised her eyebrows.

"So that's where you went earlier. Now spill!"

Spy chronicled the entire morning's events to Pyro, informing her of all the things he'd witnessed and discovered.

"Hooked up to a giant machine. Raspy voice, blueprints, insane jealousy," she pondered. A light bulb went off in her brain. "You know who it is, don't you?"

"I'm quite sure. I have a feeling you do as well."

"I'm almost certain. Nothing wrong with knowing about your employers' activities. If anything, I think we have the right to know this stuff as opposed to being left in the dark, or left to dig for ourselves."

"True. This man could be harmless, but it is more likely that he is powerful, armed, dangerous, and willing to do anything to weaken our team and win…win..." Spy, unlike himself, faltered.

What were they fighting for?

"The war between Redmond and Blutarch," Pyro said in realization. She knew that each brother ran RED and BLU respectively, and that the Administrator controlled all the affairs concerning said companies. However, in that moment, she realized that the brothers were still alive and feuding—which must be why they wanted Saxton Hale dead! Saxton Hale's death would ensure deliberate advantageous control of weapon supply to the RED team, surely resulting in a win. That answered that, but...why were they feuding in the first place?

"Let's go upstairs and discuss this," she said, her partner hobbling after her.

* * *

><p>"So even <em>you<em> don't know what we're fighting for? Shouldn't Spies know those things?" Pyro teased while the two rode up to their floor in the elevator.

"To my chagrin, I do not know everything. But, what I do not know, I eventually find out. I am a natural scavenger, a natural logician and detective. It did not take me much to hunt the suspect and form a logical conclusion based on my findings." he replied as they walked down the hall and into his room.

"Seems that way, after today. Should we alert the Administrator?"

Spy shut the door behind him and paused. The Administrator…if she knew that they knew and that they'd failed to alert her, she would punish them severely. Her seeming omniscience was intended to discourage any secrets, but he'd had a plan in mind.

A solid rapping of the wooden door resounded throughout the room. The two looked at each other quickly before Pyro cautiously answered it, Spy following her closely behind. After a glance through the peephole, she swiftly opened the door and ushered in the trenchcoated figure; it was yet another messenger.

The messenger promptly opened his coat to reveal a miniature television once again, and the image of the Administrator crackled onto the convex glass screen.

"Good afternoon, mercenaries. I viewed the press conference on television this morning, and I must say that you'd done a satisfactory job in concealing our identities. However—I noticed that the Spy disappeared somewhere in the middle..." she trailed off, instantly changing her countenance. "_I would like an explanation._"

"I thought I'd found a lead, a suspect in the crowd. I'd followed him, the lead turned up dry, and it was nothing whatsoever. A complete fluke," he spat.

The Administrator's piercing onyx eyes drilled into the Spy's for long moment. Despite the static of the television, her gaze was still highly intimidating—any average person would've cracked and fessed up. Fortunately, this particular man was not average and stood his ground, meeting her gaze straight.

"Are you sure, mercenary? You are positively certain that your suspicions were proven false?"

"Certain to the highest degree of certainty attainable," he replied without so much as batting an eyelash.

The woman with the cigarette holder burning in her hand did not look convinced. Despite feeling as though she should press on, she, much to Spy's surprise, did not. Her tone and expression reverted back from nasty and pressing to sickly saccharine.

"Fair enough. But remember the punishment for lying," she purred. "If you've done something wrong, a confession will warrant a lesser punishment than a malicious lie. You know that we're such _good_friends, and I do _despise_ liars."

"I assure you, I tell the truth. We will do more investigating and will alert you of any of our suspicions by tomorrow night at seven."

Silence. The Administrator pondered his proposition before narrowing her eyes and agreeing.

"So be it," she acquiesced. "Of course, you _will _have information."

"Certainly," the Pyro chimed in with a nod.

"All right. I bid you good day, mercenaries. Cut the feed, Pauling."

The mousy, bespectacled assistant shut the camera and turned to face her boss. She looked nothing short of troubled, holding her head in one hand and taking a long drag of her cigarette with the other.

"Pauling, go check on the rest of BLU mercenaries," the Administrator commanded. Miss Pauling, slightly taken aback, took her cue to leave and did so.

_Where did I go wrong? _the Administrator thought. Was she doing this all for that…that ludicrous, overconfident, Australian chunk of muscle tissue? No, she was doing it for the sake of her company, the sake of the war, the sake of the world, and the sake of…the sake of that ludicrous, overconfident, Australian chunk of muscle tissue.


	13. I'm Your Biggest Fan

_Chapter Thirteen: I'm Your Biggest Fan_

* * *

><p>The messenger briskly closed the open flaps of his tan, oversized trenchcoat and left the hotel room without a word. Pyro found her palms were clammy and that she had started grimacing from nerves.<p>

"Why didn't you tell her?" she asked after a long silence, glancing at the Spy from the corners of her eyes.

"I know better than to relay our intelligence to her. She has an ulterior motive, I can sense it."

"You mean you're risking our lives on a hunch?" she asked, a hint of incredulity in her voice. Spy, in return, leisurely retrieved a cigarette from his vest pocket, placed it between his lips, flicked the lighter underneath the end, and inhaled. After removing the cigarette and slowly exhaling a large cloud of tobacco smoke, his eyes pierced through said cloud and met hers.

"Tell me," he began, "have you ever looked inside the intelligence briefcases belonging to us or our opposing team?"

"No, actually, I haven't. I'd never gotten a chance to."

"I have. I am not so sure about the other Spy, but I know enough to have an idea of what is going on. In case you were unaware, the Administrator essentially controls the world, if you will."

_"Pardon?"_

"By proxy, she controls the affairs concerning RED and BLU, which are owned by Redmond and Blutarch Mann. RED and BLU are separate entities with numerous subsidiaries. She handles government affairs, has ties with most countries, large and small. Does this not sound as though she rules the world?"

Pyro stared at the floor, her eyes boring into it with such intensity that holes could be burned by her gaze alone. She brought her hands to her temples and turned to her colleague.

"How does she…okay. Never mind that," she sighed, "I—_we _can't just comply with her demands. I mean now that I know what she does, everything makes sense. Obviously, we can't take the shitstain way out and follow the mission as planned. We can't turn a blind eye to this. We've got to take her down."

"Oui, you've realized as well." Spy exhaled once again, smoke billowing out through his lips. "I'd been thinking about things. After this morning, I realized that what we are doing here is not just saving a figurehead for Australia, but, saving the world, if you will. What a _cliche._"

"You're damn right this is a cliche. You know, we came here to snipe an assassin and now here we are, world in the clutches of evil, all up to us to save the planet. Sophisticated French secret agent paired up with manly, bumbling killing machine. You never really think it'll happen to you. Then it does, and it's never really like it is on TV or the movies."

"We will do just fine. I'm not worried about us," Spy assured. Pyro raised an eyebrow at him.

"I am. In movies, they have everything neatly written out for them and everything goes peachy keen. Comically evil villain, big conflict, villain is defeated, heroes kiss in front of the explosion, they get married and have a white picket fence house with 2.5 kids, yadda yadda, you get the idea. For all we know, we could die a horrible death—or worse—carrying out this crazy idea of ours. It's the world against us."

"I only said it to placate you and boost your confidence. Has it worked?" he said with a smirk.

Recognizing the book in which Spy had taken a particular page from. Pyro rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Let's see."

"Indeed."

* * *

><p>The rest of the afternoon consisted of plan-making by the pair of mercenaries, who sat at a table and sketched up plans to the best of their ability.<p>

"Today is Monday, and the Saxxies are on Saturday. How are we gonna tell this world that they're secretly being run by a bony, purple-clad smoke cloud?"

"The Saxxies are internationally televised, are they not?"

"Yeah, under the guise that everything is acting and special effects. Things like most bloody massacre are real awards for real events and people are convinced that these awards are for special effects pioneers. It's huge, highest viewership of any award show in the world. Everyone gets a kick out of watching it."

"True. It's the perfect chance to expose her."

"Exactly."

"The ripple effect will be colossal. After this exposure, the news, the papers, the tabloids, the government—everything will explode."

"But what happens once we do that? Okay, we told everyone, now what? How do we solve the problem? Do we, like, kill her? Just set her on fire or something? I wonder how Saxton Hale feel about that?"

"How does he feel about the disposal of his ex-lover? We'll just have to ask, won't we?"

* * *

><p>By the time the two approached Saxton Hale's hotel room, evening had already settled in. Out of the corner of her eye, Pyro spotted a black-clad, hooded figure seated directly outside the door.<p>

"Who is that?" Spy asked under his breath.

"No time to wonder, let's find out." She inhaled and accosted the figure with caution.

"Hey, what's your beef?"

The startled, hooded bundle shot up from its position and bolted down the hallway. With a quick exchange of glances, Spy flew down the hallway in pursuit as his high-heeled partner watched in alarm. Within seconds, Spy uttered a battle cry, made a chance leap for the figure and, with a loud _thud_, tackled it to the ground, eliciting a loud groan from the lump.

"Hey, watch it!"

"Eh?" The masked man sat up, keeping the squirming figure in his grip still.

"That's naht how you handle a woman! OW!"

The voice that came from the mysterious person did not go unrecognized by the Pyro.

_"Nadine?" _she cried in disbelief.

"WAT?" she yelled, sitting up.

"What—what hell are you doing?"

Flustered, the Queens native scrambled to her feet, dusted herself off, and approached the fire-expert.

"I-I'm sawrry, I didn't know you were goin' undacova fa SAXTON HALE!"

"_SSSHHHHHHHHHH!_" Pyro waved her arms about again, quieting her acquaintance. "Yeah, so what?"

"That man is duh-_VINE_! How are you not meltin' into a puddle just standin' nexta him?"

"He's, uh, well," she began, unsure of what to say. She was usually not the type of woman to melt into a puddle around the opposite sex and though she admired Saxton Hale for his strength and valor, she never felt attracted to him in that manner. Was this normally how women responded to men to which they were attracted?

"He's what, hon? Isn't he simply gawge?"

"Oh, sure, I guess. He's just, uh…not my type, you know? Heh."

Nadine might not have been much of a scholar, but she was quite sharp when it came to reading others.

"Really, now? You too good fah him or somethin'?"

"What? No, not at all! Far from it," Pyro chuckled.

Nadine placed her hands on her hips, popped her gum, and gave the older woman a look.

"Oh, of course. I shoulda known. Frenchie ova heah is ya new beau, isn't he?"

"_NAY!__" _she screeched.

"Don't you NAY me, I know you, missy. I mean, certainly a fine choice, I must say. I am impressed, I mean I never knew you had such a taste in men—"

"The ties between my colleague and myself remain confidential, I am afraid," Spy said, cutting into the conversation

"Ey, I ain't talkin' to you, baguette. I'm talkin' to ya girlfren ovah heah!"

"I'm not his girlfriend! Jesus Christ, Nadine!"

"**_WOT'S GOIN ON OUT HERE?_**" Saxton Hale roared as he smashed his door down and adjusted his light pink nightcap.

"Omaigawd omaigawd omaigawd," Nadine squealed, hopping up and down and clapping her hands.

"EH? LOOKS LIKE I HAVE A FAN HERE."

"Oh, do you eva!" she exclaimed, nearly swooning.

Saxton Hale ripped out a notepad and black marker from his remarkably short shorts, signed an autograph, and scooped up Nadine for an enormous, bone-crunching bear hug.

"COMMON FAN PROTOCOL, YOU KNOW. GOTTA CATER TO THE FANS, 'SPECIALLY THE SHEILAS" he boomed as he put down the shaking young lady. For once in her life, the chatterbox was left speechless.

"Understandable, I suppose. May I inquire your apparent need to be wearing a nightcap?" Spy asked with a hint of confusion.

"NOTHIN' WRONG WITH NIGHT CAPS, MATE. MY SLEEPIN' SCHEDULE'S ALL BLOODY SCREWY NOW, TOTALLY OPPOSITE OF THE OUTBACK."

Pyro nodded. "Listen, I know you're trying to fix yourself up right now, but, uh, can we talk for a bit?"

"TALK? SURE, WHY NOT. STEP RIGHT IN," he boomed. And so, Pyro, Spy, and a shaky Nadine entered the hotel room of Saxton Hale.

"Nadine, would you mind leaving us alone for a bit? It's, uh, secret-agent stuff…you know how it is."

"Y-yeah sure, definitely. I'll be in the bathroom." With that, she took her cue to leave.

"SO," Saxton boomed, flopping down on the couch with gusto, "WOT IS IT YOU'D ALL LIKE TO KNOW?"


	14. I'll Follow You Until You Love Me

_Chapter Fourteen: I'll Follow You Until You Love Me_

* * *

><p>Spy and Pyro seated themselves on the soft, leather couch that sat in Saxton Hale's spacious hotel suite, and mentally braced themselves for whatever would come their way from the mighty Australian.<p>

"Well," Pyro began, "do you mind telling us, uh—"

"—About your relationship with the Administrator?" Spy finished. As always, he was blunt and to the point.

"OH, HELEN. YEP, A CHAIN-SMOKIN' SEDUCTRESS SHE IS! GOOD TO TAKE OUT FOR STEAK DINNERS, CLASSY LADY OVERALL, NICE BEDMATE EVEN. OHHH, THE TIMES WE HAD. SHE'S A KINKY ONE, YOU KNOW. WHY D'YA ASK?"

"Well, um, you're the president of Mann. Co, and obviously close with her," Pyro said. "I'm sure you are aware that she pulls some global strings, right?"

"SHE DOES OFTEN GET HER WAY, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING. I KNOW THAT FOR SURE. IT ISN'T LIKE SHE'S ATTAINED WORLD DOMINATION OR ANYTHING!" he said with raucous laughter.

Spy cleared his throat and opened his suit jacket, retrieving a stack of folded papers from the inner pocket and placing them on the coffee table.

"Mr. Hale, she acquired twenty-three islands for herself in 1969. In 1971, despite two United States laws failing to pass the Senate, they were quietly enacted and enforced, regardless of the process of law-passing in this country. Rumor has it she's been testing nuclear weapons in the badlands of Nevada. This is more than just lobbying or having a substantial influence, and I am sure you see that."

"WELL." Hale picked up the papers and skimmed them, not exactly ready to tell the people in front of him just exactly what he knew. His eyes shifted sketchily from side to side, which did not go unnoticed by the Pyro. She decided to try and engineer her responses to gear him towards supporting their cause.

"Mr. Ha—Saxton—, you know what this woman does. You know it isn't right, pitting mercenaries to fight each other simply for her own amusement, doing behind-the-scenes work in this world for her own benefit. You know that she doesn't have the right to be able to tell everyone what to do."

"I—"

"You can't let your personal feelings for this woman get in the way of what's right."

"BUT YOU CAN'T TELL ME WOT'S RIGHT OR WHAT'S WRONG! I'M SAXTON BLOODY HA—"

"Think about your adoring, mustachioed citizens back in Australia! You're their role model, you've got to do the right thing. Imagine their sheer disappointment upon the revelation that you've let them be controlled by someone without a mustache!"

"…I DON'T BELIEVE ANY OF THIS!," he cried, tossing the papers everywhere, "WOT'S YOUR SOURCE?"

"The papers you've just—"

"YE, BUT I DON'T BELIEVE YOU CAN JUST PRANCE ON DOWN HERE AND TALK TO ME ABOUT THINGS I CLEARLY KNOW MORE ABOUT!"

"Oh really, now? Care to elaborate on how much more you know?" Pyro raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms.

"LOOK, I'VE KNOWN HELEN ALL MY LIFE. OUR FAMILIES GO WAY BACK. HER GRANDMOTHER INHERITED ZEPHENIAH MANN'S FORTUNE, MY GRANDFATHER INHERITED MANN CO. I MEAN, I'VE ALWAYS BEEN A TAD _JEALOUS_, BUT—"

"If I am not mistaken, Mann Co. is one of the subsidiaries of TF Industries, which is owned by the Administrator," said the Spy.

"OBVIOUSLY I KNOW THAT. I DON'T MIND; IT'S THE WAY IT'S ALWAYS BEEN! THAT DEVILISH PURPLE VIXEN INHERITED CONTROL OF RED AND BLU, EVEN THOUGH THE MANN BROTHAS AND THEIR PETTY ARGUEMENT ARE STILL ALIVE. AND I AM NOW THE PROUD OWNER OF MANN CO., SELLIN' PRODUCTS AND GETTIN' INTO FIGHTS!"

"You're sure there isn't more to it?" Pyro coaxed.

"WELL, I AM RATHER FOND OF HER!"

"You claim you two are, how would you say, friends with benefits?"

"I SUPPOSE THAT'S WOT SOME WOULD CALL IT. SHE MEANS QUITE A BIT TO ME, Y'KNOW!" Saxton boasted.

"Cool," Pyro nodded, slightly let-down as she was already privy to that particular tidbit._Let me try something else._

"I presume you and the Administrator are on good terms?"

"AH, WHO KNOWS! SHE PLAYS HARD TO GET ALL THE TIME, THAT SEX KITT'N! ACTIN' COLD N' RUDE ONE MINUTE AND WANTIN' SOME OF SEXTON THE NEXT!" he said, clearly lost in thought about the woman in question.

A squeal echoed from the bathroom.

"I see, I see," Pyro grumbled, "Thanks for the, uh, information." She and the Spy arose from the couch and started towards the door.

"YOU'RE WEL—EY, WAIT JUST ONE BLOODY MINNIT!" he exclaimed, causing the two to turn around anxiously. What could he possibly want?

"WOT ARE YOU PLANNING, EXACTLY? NOBODY SQUEEZES SUCH CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION OUT OF SAXTON HALE AND GETS AWAY WITH IT! "

"Well…we…can't exactly—"

"OUT WITH IT ALREADY!"

"Uhhh, didn't you mention something about jealousy earlier?" Pyro said quickly.

"PERHAPS. WOT OF IT?"

"You mean to say you're jealous of the Administrator because she owns TF Industries along with the entire Mann fortune, and you received only Mann Co.?"

"IN LAYMAN'S TERMS, I SUPPOSE. ISN'T IT OBVIOUS THAT THEIR FORTUNE WOULD BE FAR BETTER OFF UNDER MY FIST OF STEEL?"

"But of course," Spy said, humoring him.

"Yeah, obviously. That money should be with the strongest man in the world, of course. Of course, yes! That's why…well, that's why we kind of need your help."

"MY HELP? ARE YOU TRYING TO TURN ME AGAINST MY ALLY?"

"No, no!" Pyro lied. "This is for the greater good. Don't you think the Mann Feud deserve to be put to rest?"

"REALLY, NOW. HOW DO YOU PLAN ON CONVINCING THOSE INSANE, DECREPIT WASTES OF OXYGEN THAT THEIR "WAR" IS MEANINGLESS AND HAS BEEN FOR OVER A HUNDRED YEARS?"

"That's not the point right now," Pyro replied. In truth, neither had even thought of just how they were supposed to convince the Mann brothers to simply die in peace already. "But we need your cooperation. Things have gotten out of hand under this woman's control and something has to be done. All I ask is that you play along with what we do and whatever circumstances arise, _do__ not__ inform the Administrator of our findings._"

"THIS IS CERTAINLY SOMETHING THAT NEEDS THOUGHT. YOU'RE ASKING FOR A LOT, YOU KNOW. BY TOMORROW I'LL GIVE YOU A DEFINITE YES OR NO—SIGNED BY YOURS TRULY, SAXTON HALE. AND IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM, YOU CAN TAKE IT UP WITH ME!" he yelled, striking a pose.

"That seems fair enough…I suppose. Well, er, merci beaucoup for your time, sir," Spy said reluctantly, rising from his seat and shaking the man's enormous, muscly hand.

"Yes, quite. We'll take our leave, now, Saxton. Thanks for the information and for your time." Pyro bid him goodbye with a wave and knocked on the bathroom door.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'!" Nadine shouted from the other side, emerging and smoothing her black sweatshirt down. "Gosh, what a ritzy palace! I'm plotzing!"

"Nadine, let's plotz later. I'll call you a cab back to Queens, how about that?"

"Seems fair, considerin' you guys tackled me!" she teased and gave Spy a look, garnering an eye-roll and groan from the masked man.

* * *

><p>During the elevator ride down to the lobby, Pyro's curiosity had gotten the best of her.<p>

"Hey, Nadine. Do you still live in the same place?"

"Of course. My motha wouldn't budge from Queens if ya paid her to! Why?"

"Just wondering. How DID you get right next to Saxton Hale's room? I don't like that it was that easy for a civillian to infiltrate like that. It's a little unsettling how little security we have."

"Hon, come on! I've gawt my ways."

"Yeah, there's no doubting that," the pyrotechnician chuckled, ambling across the lobby. Whilst heading outside into the warm evening air through the revolving door, however, she was abruptly bumped into.

"Goodness me, I apologize!" A tall, tan, sharply-dressed man said with a gasp, ruffling his jet-black hair in sheepish apology. She recognized him from the press conference earlier as he has asked quite a few questions.

"It's my fault, I apologize. I should've been watching where I was going." The Pyro normally would've yelled and upbraided the passerby for being clumsy, but she unfortunately did not have that luxury—especially since this man instantly recognized her.

"Goodness, Ms. Phoebe O'Brien, Saxton Hale's girlfriend! Why, I believe saw you at that press conference this morning! Thank you for answering my questions."

"O-oh, yes. You're welcome, sir. I do apologize, but this isn't exactly the prime time in which to converse—"

"No need! I simply request an autograph; is that too much for just a fan?" the man asked with a disarming grin, holding out a pen and napkin.

Getting a good look at his conventionally attractive face, she grasped the writing utensil and signed the off-white napkin with a flourish.

"Here you are, sir. Have a wonderful night."

"You as well, miss. Oh, and one more thing!" With that, he whipped a camera out of his bag, clicked several times, and with the shattering glare of the final flashblub, escaped.

Pyro blinked dazedly before realized what had just taken place.

"The _nerve!_" she shouted, crossing her arms and stalking towards the edge of the sidewalk. "Some _fan_. Probably just some nosy journalist who wanted dirt."

"But come on, sweetie. You can't deny that he was a _gawd_! Tawl, dawk, handsome…"

"Doesn't matter how handsome he was, Nay. Despite attractiveness, a paparazzo is a paparazzo."

"Wait, wait, wait," Spy cut in, "are you implying that you thought that...that gremlin was _handsome_? Please."

"_Gremlin_? You're jealous because another man happens to be good-looking and the best you could come up with to defend your jealousy was _gremlin_?" Pyro laughed.

"Jealous? Au contraire, I am simply pointing out the obvious!"

"Obvious, my ass," she muttered under her breath.

"Ah-ah-ah! My, such unclean language for such a proper lady! What if he'd heard you? It would've ended up in _The Daily Gremlin_!"

Pyro sighed in irritation and hailed Nadine a cab. She handed the driver a wad of cash and gave him Nadine's address.

"Thanks so much, doll! I'll pay ya back!"

"Don't you worry about it, Nay. I'll see you soon," Pyro said as she waved off the cab. Little did Nadine know that her childhood friend was a multimillionaire and that repayment was far from necessary.

* * *

><p>The team of two walked quickly back into the building with their heads down to avoid being recognized, which, to their surprise, worked out perfectly. Upon reaching Pyro's room, the woman threw her hands into the air.<p>

"Anyone wanna tell me what just happened?"

"Well, for starters, your friend flirts with everything with a pulse, a large, naïve Australian vomited information at us, and some gremlin wanted information on you."

"It was a rhetorical question, but thank you Walter Cronkite."

"My pleasure. This has been CBS News."

"I'm being serious! What if that…that_ witch _knows what we're doing and is watching us right now, like she's Big Brother? WEE-OO, WEE-OO, THOUGHT POLICE COMIN THROUGH!"

"I assure you, not in this room. I would've known by now," Spy replied with a cursory look around the room.

"How can you be so sure? Never mind that, what if we fail? Are we going about this the right way?

"In a situation like this, we can only hope for the best. We did our research, we're fairly confident we know what is going on. We are two very capable people. And everybody has a right to be free, do they not? Everybody has a right to freedom from some skeleton with horrible taste in suits. Have some faith in _us_, cherié."

Pyro thought for a minute while those last words rang in her head over and over.

_Have some faith in_ us,_ cherié._

She smiled a true, genuine smile. "You know what, you're right. This needs to be done, and we gotta do what needs to be done. S'all there is to it. I shouldn't be doubting us so much like this. Cause you know, the more I think about it, the more I think we...we might actually be able to _pull this thing off_."

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"I'm just being cautious."

"I understand. The risk is great, but it is quite thrilling."

"Yeah, I don't need thrills right now. I need to get some rest so we can wake up tomorrow, have some coffee, and plan for our world domination, obviously."

"Of course. Bonsoir, cherié." Spy bid her goodnight and left the room, closing the door behind him quietly.

Pyro sat on her bed in deep thought. She wondered just how much Saxton Hale liked polar bear steak.


	15. Papa, Paparazzi

_Chapter Fifteen: Papa, Paparazzi_

* * *

><p>"Will you look at this filth? The<em> nerve <em>of that gremlin. You were revealed not two days ago and look at what he's trying to stir."

The Spy shook his head in indignation, restlessly pacing around the Pyro's hotel room as she was having her hair styled. Under his arm was a tabloid with an image of the Pyro on the cover, smothered in large, colored text. "**HALE'S NEW LADY: **_**MRS**_** HALE IN THE WORKS?!**"

"I know, I know, again with the gremlin, as you've so affectionately branded him. At least he didn't sling mud at me. It's relatively harmless, just sensation-y bait. I'm sure nobody reads it. Probably just impulse-bought by miserably bored housewives."

"According to Reddy, we've been heading numerous calls from countless news sources all morning," Spy said with a sigh, rubbing his temples. "That tabloid has a readership that is quite comfortably in the millions. They are all even more fixated on your personal life than we thought."

"Yeah, well, I'm all lady-like now. I've got a backstory. I can handle this. What are you so worried about? Besides, Saxton Hale is an international superstar. The type of people who care about his personal life will care a lot about who he's dating," she said.

"You are correct. But I do not like the attention you are drawing."

"I don't enjoy it either, but you're going to have to get used to it. Comes with the role," she said with a section of her hair over her face.

"Unfortunately." The amount of jealousy surging through Spy's veins was new and unnerving to him. He knew he'd come off as a bit jealous, but never had he truly felt this protective of a woman in his life. As he was never big into commitment and attachment, he never felt jealousy concerning his partners in the past. How exactly she'd gotten him to feel this attached in such a short period of time, he'd never know.

Within minutes, Pyro's hair was finished. With her appearance polished, the stylists filed out of the hotel room. Pyro slowly arose from her seat, strutted her way to the Spy, and lightly poked him in the chest.

"You."

"What about me?" he asked. She smiled.

"You're are so, so _jealous._"

"Again with the jealousy accusations? You really think I, of all people, am the jealous type?" he scoffed.

"Uh, _yah,_" she deadpanned. "You are. But there's nothing wrong with that, you know."

"There is when I'd have no reason to be."

"So you're admitting it."

"I am not. There is nothing to admit."

"Come on, you know you're jeeeeealousss. Jealous, jealous, jealous. You're just so jealous that you're about to explode," she jeered, poking the Spy's chest for emphasis.

"Well, then. If you think I have any reason to be jealous, then show me one," he said. He knew that tactic was a bit underhanded, but she would most definitely take the bait.

"Okay, fine. Uhh...you call me 'cherié' a whole lot, I think you said you thought I was pretty once? I'm not sure. Um, you're always around me and trying to protect me, you had a meltdown when a mildly attractive guy paid attention to me..." she trailed off, counting the reasons on her fingers.

"Is that all you can think of?" he said, amused. Of course she wouldn't take the bait this easily. Didn't he know her by now? When did she ever take bait? She made him work.

"Hm, is there something I'm missing?" she asked, staring at the ceiling while lost in thought. There was something she was missing; she hadn't noticed that he was standing right in front of her.

"Well, one small thing," he replied. He cupped his hands on her cheeks and kissed her with a smooth tenderness. He pulled back and found his partner dazed. She shook her head, still not completely used to the concept of kissing.

"I really don't know how you do that. It's weird. Do you...eat drugs before you do that to me? Is that what it is? I'm almost certain that's what it is."

"No, most certainly not. You must be enjoying it," he said dryly. He decided to continue pressing the issue. "If I did not know any better, I'd almost think that perhaps you harbored a sort of fondness for me!" Pyro, taken aback, stared wide-eyed at her teammate.

"Fondness? For you? I—"

Luckily for her, Pyro was abruptly interrupted by the door buzzer. After a quick glance, she went over to the peephole and peeped through it. It was a deliveryman.

"Ah, perfect! Right on time, thanks."

"No problem, ma'am."

Pyro closed the door and put the box in the refrigerator. Spy wandered into the kitchenette area in awe.

"What in God's name did you order?"

"Polar bear steaks. I'm thinking Saxton will like them." She caught Spy rolling his eyes. "Hey, if we need to resort to bribery, we will!"

"If he was bribed this easily, I should think we will have not a problem in convincing him to side with us," he stated. "Now, about our earlier discussion."

"Uh...what about it?" she asked innocently.

"You know full well," he answered, stepping closer to her.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you think fondly of me?"

"Um—"

Pyro was once again saved, this time by the fervent knocking of her door. The two exchanged glances again before she went and looked through the peephole. It was...Nadine?

"Nadine, what the hell are you doing here?" Pyro asked as she opened the door to the gushing young woman.

"Bar—I mean, Pheebs! You gotta see this!" she shrieked, splaying tabloids and newspapers all over the table.

"Yeah, we saw those already. What's your point?"

"Didja _read _em?!"

"Well, we were going to."

"Read em right now!" she exclaimed, flipping feverishly to Pyro's feature in one of the magazines. "Look at this one: '_O'Brien's favorite activities include shopping, golfing, and cooking'?! _Where the hell did they get this from? Who have you become?" she wailed.

"That's not actually me, Nay. It's my undercover personality. I told them that at a press conference yesterday."

"Yeah, but still. They made you out to be so bland. How could ya?"

"If I stand out at all, they'll pick me apart and tear me to shreds. I'll receive less attention now because they think there isn't anything to me. My goal's to blend in," she replied. The more the Pyro stared at Nadine, the more the hare-brained scheme cooking up in her head began to make sense. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

"Hey, Nadine. How would you like to help us secret agents out?" Pyro asked in a lowered voice. This elicited a look of immediate concern from the Spy. What the _hell _was she doing? This personal mission they were undertaking was confidential in the highest degree of confidentiality and here she was asking some regular joe-schmoe if she wanted to lend a hand.

"OOH! This could be exciting," Nadine said. "What would I be doin'?"

"Pretend to be a witness. You're a charmer, right? You can socially navigate your way through anything."

"Oh, that is my _speciality,_" she sang.

"Good. Now, you're going to need a disguise—"

"Wait, wait, wait, may I ask what exactly is going on here?" the Spy asked exasperatedly.

"Nadine, can you give us some privacy? Let me explain to Mr. Baguette here what we're doing."

"Absolutely!" Nadine said, entranced with the prospect of being a secret agent. Pyro dragged Spy to the bathroom.

"What on Earth do you think you are doing? Are you mad? She's not fit to be left in charge of a convenience store without losing her head, how do you think she'll fare in this situation?" he whispered vehemently.

"Shhh! You don't give her enough credit, you know. And hear me out. I've got a plan."

"What sound plan could possibly involve _this woman_?"

"Listen up. We'll dress her up, make her blonde, give her an accent, whatever. Okay? We'll bring her into the briefing tonight. Steer the boss completely wrong. Tell her she's a witness, blatantly lie, make something up. She won't know what hit her. It'll buy us more time."

Spy mulled this over. It was crazy. It was illogical. It was highly unlikely to work.

"Fine. I'll do it."

"Thank you. Now let's turn Nadine into a Swede."

The master of disguise stepped out and briskly went to work. Within the course of a few hours, Nadine looked convincingly Swedish.

"Gosh, you don't even look like the same person, Nadine! This is perfect!"

"I knoooooow!" she said, admiring herself in the mirror. "I look like Twiggy!" she mused, whilst looking nothing like the slender British model.

"You look nothing like Twiggy, Nay. Anyway, here's the story. You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be!"

Pyro gave Nadine an abridged, topical version of the situation. She explained that someone was out to kill Saxton Hale and that they were hired to protect him. However, she explained, their boss was evil and has ulterior motives. This is where Nadine would come in. She briefed her on her character and what her story would be. It had to be consistent, convincing, complete.

"Greta Lindström, at your service!" Nadine said in a passable Swedish accent. Pyro clapped; Spy was mildly impressed.

"She will do," he said. "She will do."

"It's great, Nadine. If you find your accent slipping, just pretend that your English isn't great."

"Ah, I sorry, English not so great," Nadine said shyly.

"Just like that! And you said this wouldn't work," Pyro spat, looking at her colleague. He sighed.

"We shall see."

* * *

><p>Before long, seven in the evening approached. Like clockwork, the chime on the clock was met with a singular knock on the door. Pyro swiftly opened it, knowing exactly who was behind it. The same trenchcoat-clad figure swiftly moved in front of the group and turned on his television.<p>

"Mercenaries? Can you hear me?" rasped the older woman from the monitor.

"We can hear you just fine," replied Pyro.

"Excellent. Who is this you have with you?" she asked with narrowed eyes.

"Greta Lindström. She's our witness," said Pyro.

"Ah, of course," the older woman purred, tapping her bony digits together. "So tell me, Greta. What do you know?"

"I see...man in crowd at press conference. He is tall. Dark. Handsome. Journalist, I am thinking, for _Globe _magazine. I see him snapping photos, asking questions of Saxon Hell—"

"_Saxton Hale_, you mean," corrected the Administrator.

"Yes, him. He seem very interested. In fact, I even see him go up to Saxton. Pester him, ask for information. Nobody else journalist do this. I see him hang around lobby for hotel yesterday and last night. He take surprise picture of Ms. O'Reilly. He seem very suspicions," concluded Nadine. Pyro and Spy fluffed up the story to try and increase its credibility.

"That man was sketchy. I didn't like the look of him. He wrote that article about me in _Globe_, too. His name is Donald Watson. Seemed the most interested of anyone at the conference. And he did ambush me in the lobby last night. Sneaky, calculating, menacing," said Pyro.

"Absolutely," added the Spy. "I even followed him around for a bit. He was asking others of Hale's whereabouts, along with the Pyro's. He drives a white, unmarked van with a New Jersey plate. I believe he is our main suspect. We just need a nail in the coffin."

The Administrator's piercing gaze danced between the three of them. While their story seemed sound, it held a hint of contrivance.

"You're absolutely certain? You aren't making this up, are you? You do understand how serious this mission is, don't you?"

"Without a doubt," responded Spy. "We are almost certain that he is the one."

She decided she'd take their word for it, but was about to do her own research. This mission had zero room for failure, and she would make sure of her own accord that it went off without a hitch.

"If you say so. You had better find that nail and shut his coffin, then," she said with a smirk. "Your hard work is appreciated. I bid you good evening, mercenaries. Cut the feed, Pauling." As the feed was cut, she whirled around in her chair and quickly went to work researching her employees' lead. _Donald Watson, they said..._

The masked messenger swiftly fled the room and left three stunned musketeers in his wake.

"Holy fuck," muttered Pyro. "I can't believe that actually _worked._"

"We are not out of the woods yet. I am not entirely sure she believed us."

"Yeah, I dunno. She seemed kinda on-guard the whole time. Maybe she saw right through our bullshit and was too nice to call us out?" suggested Nadine.

"Definitely not," said Pyro as she walked towards the kitchenette. "She believed us on some level. It's not like this is a fix or anything. This is just to buy us more time."

"Huh? Buy you more time fuh wat?" asked Nadine.

"For negotiating with Saxton Hale!" Pyro called out from the fridge, retrieving her polar bear steaks.

"OOH, is that what those steaks are for?"

"Yup. Polar bear steaks, his favorite!"

"This is completely ludicrous," sighed Spy. "It isn't going to—"

Once again, someone was interrupted by the doorbell. However, this ring was accompanied by grumbling and several deafeningly loud raps on the door.

Everyone froze. Nobody had to check the peephole to see who it was.


	16. Red, Gray, and Blu

Chapter Sixteen: Red, Gray, and Blu

* * *

><p>Thump.<p>

_Thump._

_Thump._

The trio looked at each other, a heavy silence hanging in the room. Pyro slowly set the polar bear steaks down on the counter.

_**Thump.**_

_**Thumpthumpthump.**_

"Coming!" yelled Pyro, flinging herself towards the door and opening it. To nobody's surprise, Saxton Hale marched in. The Spy cleared his throat.

"Have you made a dec—"

"I'LL JOIN YE!" he roared, beating his chest in an apelike manner.

"What? WHY?" Pyro said with a gasp. "I mean, uh, what led you to that conclusion so quickly?"

"FORGET ABOUT REDMOND. FORGET ABOUT BLUTARCH. WE DON'T STAND A CHANCE!" The formidable man violently plopped down on the couch, his head in his hands. Spy and Pyro exchanged alarmed glances.

"What do you mean forget about them? They're the root of the problem," Pyro said.

"THEY CAN'T BE WHEN THEY'RE DEAD!" he bellowed.

"Dead?" asked the Spy in surprise. This was the worst possible outcome. If the two old crooks who owned the world were possibly killed, then that meant that they had a far bigger fish to fry.

"DEAD, THAT'S RIGHT. AND EVEN WORSE: MANN CO. IS NO LONGER MINE!" he cried in anguish. He banged his fist on the coffee table, smashing it to smithereens.

"What happened?" Pyro asked. Saxton Hale turned to look at her, his beady eyes meeting hers.

"I'LL TELL YE WHAT BLOODY HAPPENED! THEM MANN BROS HAVE A THIRD ONE—GRAY MANN, HE CALLS HIMSELF. HE-HE UNPLUGGED BOTH OF THEIR LIFE EXTENDERS AND KILLED 'EM BOTH DEAD. HE'S GOT ONE HIMSELF, TOO. HE'S WORSE THAN BOTH OF 'EM COMBINED. THE SMARTEST BY FAR, EVEN STARTED TALKIN' WHEN HE WAS BORN."

"Seriously? Is that even possible?"

"IT IS WHEN YOU'RE BLOODY GRAY MANN. HE'S A GENIUS. AND HE'S GOT A LITTLE DAUGHTER TO BOOT. SHE'S THE ONE WHO USURPED THE THRONE FROM YOURS TRULY!"

"How did _that_ happen?" Spy inquired dryly.

"I HAVE A POLICY THAT BACKFIRED ON ME. IT WAS SO THAT ANYONE WHO BESTED ME IN PHYSICAL COMBAT COULD TAKE ON MANN CO. OF COURSE, THERE'S NOBODY STRONGER THAN I. BUT THIS LITTLE GIRL COMES ALONG, CHALLENGES ME TO A FISTFIGHT. I CAN'T PUNCH A LITTLE GIRL, WHAT KIND OF MONSTER DO YA THINK I AM? SO OF COURSE I DECLINE. AND BY THAT LOGIC, SHE SWIPED MY COMPANY FROM RIGHT UNDER MY OWN TWO FEET!"

Pyro and Spy stared at Saxton Hale slack-jawed. Regardless of the idiocy of his policy, it was no wonder he came crawling back to them to join their ragtag world-saving team.

"Okay, let's calm down," Pyro began carefully. "Does the press know?"

"NO, HAVEN'T A CLUE."

"That's a start, there's something. Are you still hosting the Saxxies?"

"HE'S MAKIN' ME. HE WANTS EVERYTHING TO SEEM LIKE IT'S BUSINESS AS USUAL. EVEN HELEN'S GONE, NOBODY KNOWS WHERE. TOOK ALL THE AUSTRALIUM WITH HER, THAT SHE-DEVIL."

"I've seen the blueprints for the life extender machines," Spy said. "Do they not run on Australium power?"

"THEY DO. WITHOUT AUSTRALIUM, HE'LL RUN OUT 'N' DIE, EVENTUALLY. I'D SAY HE'S GOOD FOR AT LEAST SIX MONTHS. BUT HE'S LOOKIN', HE'S LOOKIN' HARD. LAST I HEARD HE HIRED A BUNCH OF HIS OWN MERCENARIES TO FIND SOME."

"That's...not good," sighed Pyro as she started towards the kitchen area.

"WELL, YOU'D BETTER HAVE SOMETHIN' IN MIND!" he called after her.

"We'll do it," said the Spy without hesitation, drawing everyone's attention to him. "...on one condition. You help us brainstorm and execute this plan in any way we ask you to."

"ME?"

"Oui."

"HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO—OHHH, ARE MY EYES DECEIVIN' ME?"

Pyro came out of the kitchen wielding an open box of aged polar bear steaks. She set the box down in front of him.

"AGED POLAR BEAR STEAKS? STRAIGHT FROM THE ARCTIC?"

"You betcha. Shipped this morning."

"AHH, YOU'RE A GOOD SHEILA, YOU KNOW THAT. KNOW YER WAY INTO A MAN'S HEART!" he cried, yanking three steaks out of the box and devouring them raw.

"Thanks," she said with a laugh. "So...will you be joining us?"

"WITHOUT A DOUBT!" he roared, bits of raw polar bear flying out of his mouth. He leapt up and violently beat his chest. "LET'S DO THIS."

"All RIGHT!" Pyro shouted, clapping her hands together. "Let's get this party started!"

* * *

><p>Hours had gone by. The makeshift Justice League sat around the large table in Pyro's suite, cooking up the plan of a lifetime. Blueprints were passed around, coffee was had, midnight oil was burned.<p>

"Is Gray Mann comin' to the Saxxies?" asked Nadine, popping her hard, stale, coffee-tainted gum.

"FROM WHAT I HEARD," said Saxton Hale in an attempt to whisper. "HE'S GONNA BE MAKIN' A SURPRISE APPEARANCE. HE WANTS TO USE THE SHOW AS A WAY TO REVEAL HIS COMPLETELY FRIENDLY, MUTUALLY AGREED-UPON ACQUISITION OF MY COMPANY. THAT RAT!" He shook his fist.

"Perfect," said Pyro, jotting down notes. "Gray Mann at Saxxies...wants to unveil "new" Mann Co. Is the Administrator going to be there?"

"I'LL TRACK HER DOWN, CALL AN' ASK HER. SHE CAN'T HIDE FROM ME!"

"Maybe she wants to confront this Gray Mann," suggested Spy. "It seems like the perfect set-up."

"Yeah, well, everyone's trying to get each other at the Saxxies. Gray Mann wants to show up and surprise everyone, the Administrator probably knows and wants to blow him up or something, and we're there to shut it all down. This is going to be a shitshow," muttered Pyro.

"My kinda shitshow," Nadine giggled. "I can't believe this is happenin'. This is such a thrill!"

"Do you realize that we literally have the entire weight of the world on our shoulders, Nay?"

"Yeah, but it's like a movie. Good guys always win, ya know. I'm sure we'll do fine."

"Easy for you to say," Pyro grumbled, twirling her pen between her fingers. Easy for her to say when Nadine was only assisting them and not doing much heavy lifting in terms of execution. She wasn't even supposed to be involved, but they needed all the help they could get.

Saxton Hale then abruptly stood up, nearly knocking over the entire table.

"IT'S QUITE LATE, DON'TCHA THINK? WE AREN'T GETTIN' MUCH DONE NOW. WE CAN CONTINUE TOMORROW," he said with a mighty yawn.

"I agree," groaned Pyro. "I'm getting a headache staring at all these papers."

"I am just getting started," Spy said. He stretched, rolled up his sleeves, took a swig of coffee, and lit another cigarette. Pyro wondered how he saw what he was writing with all that smoke billowing out of his mouth.

"I'm gonna crash here," Nadine announced, taking her leave to crash on one of the plush couches in the suite. She turned on the TV and flopped onto the couch.

"I'LL BE SEEIN' ALL OF YE TOMORROW. G'NIGHT, MATES!" Saxton boomed, storming over to the door. He turned the doorknob and pushed on the door, met with nothing but resistance and frustration. After a few more seconds of frantically trying to push it open, he got very annoyed and prepared to kick the door down.

"WAIT, NO!" Pyro yelled, scrambling up from her chair. "PULL IT OPEN, PULL IT OPEN!"

"AH. I SEE. AHEM. SORRY 'BOUT THAT," he said sheepishly, quickly opening the door correctly and taking his leave.

"Jesus," whispered Pyro, putting her hands to her temples and sinking back down into her chair next to the Spy. Only a dim, yellow lamp was left on to light the room, casting a variety of shadows on the wall. Much to her astonishment, she noticed that the Spy began comfortingly rubbing her back with his one free hand. She was going to ask him why when he answered her question for her.

"It'll be alright, if we do everything correctly—and I'm sure we will—things will go according to plan. Just relax."

"Yeah, yeah. How am I the only one scared about this?"

"It is an extremely stressful situation, yes. But we are very capable people," he said. He took his hand off the Pyro's back and she bit her tongue, holding back from immediately objecting to the removal. Had she enjoyed the contact that much? Just a week ago she would've felt obliged to set anyone who tried to lay a hand on her on fire. What had gotten into her?

She stood up and straightened herself out, smoothing her dress. She stepped over behind the Spy and tentatively put her hands on his shoulders. She would show him what he was doing to her.

"What do you think you are doing?" Spy asked coyly.

"Just, uh, y'know. You've been working pretty hard," she muttered, fighting the dark blush that threatened to creep across her face.

"Is that so?"

"Uh...yeah. Stress reliever," she replied quietly, moving her hands and rubbing his back like he did hers. Spy leaned back and took a long drag from his cigarette, closing his eyes. In minutes, he realized that having her hands on him in such a manner was effectively blinding him from any thought.

"You know I cannot work like this. I am very distracted," he said, clearing his throat and sitting up straight.

"Oh, really?" Pyro said in innocent mock-offense, taking her seat again. "What's distracting you?"

"Things."

"Such as?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, lowering his voice. "I am working so close to such a woman as you. Quite difficult, you see, when you do such things as touch me, or...be so very attractive." He blew a steady cloud of smoke and cooly held eye contact with his now furiously blushing companion. The Spy had decided that now was the time to finally get what he wanted out of her—the truth. They'd both been dancing around it like teenagers for too long.

"Yeah, well, do you think it's easy for me to concentrate when you start touching me like that?" she spat.

"I do not understand, I was simply putting my hand on your back. Like what exactly?"

"Like...you know."

"I do not."

"Oh, shut up."

"I really do not," he said quietly with a small smirk. "You must elaborate."

"Bullshit! Quit playing games."

"All this progress you made and you still swear like a sailor," he said with a simper, shaking his head. His demeanor suddenly shifted in a way Pyro couldn't quite recognize. He leaned in closer to her and put his arm around her.

"I am not playing games, cherié. Do you think this is a game?"

"Well, uh, define 'this' for me," she said, trying to steady her voice.

"You. Me," he said softly. "Us. We both know what's been going on, don't you think we should address it?"

At this, her palms dampened, her stomach did flips, her heart raced, her chest tightened, and her face reddened even further. She felt hot and panicked, going from absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of her dress to gripping it with white-knuckled force. Never in her life had she ever had such a nervous, anxious feeling like this, nor had she ever thought to prepare herself for it. The fact that her romantic feelings went from a long-dormant zero to up to eleven¹ in such a short period of time was nothing short of mindblowing.

The Pyro decided that it was time, however, to leave that phase of her life behind. Now was the time for a change. Time to take a leap and try something that, for once, truly scared the woman to death.

"Uh, yes. Us. Well, yes, that's us. You, me, us. But, uh, 'us' isn't a joke to me or anything like that. In fact..." she trailed off shakily, internally cursing herself for sounding everything but confident.

"In fact..? "

She shut her eyes tightly and took a deep, shuddery breath.

"I...I, uh...I'm really fond of you, as you probably already know. I—I don't know how it happened so fast over this past week. It's never happened before. Ever. I feel really weird and different and unsure of things," she said, exhaling deeply. "And I really hope this isn't a game to you, either. I'm just some brash woman with too much testosterone and you're this suave, sophisticated rogue. So if I'm just another pair of tits for you to smoothly seduce or something, just tell me now and save us both the trouble."

There, she'd let it out. The Pyro decided that she would let the Spy make of that what he would. Obviously, he would realize that they wouldn't be compatible. She couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind thinking they were compatible with her, especially someone like him.

To her surprise, he took her cold, shaking hand in his, gazing into her eyes. In that moment, she looked absolutely nothing like her usual upstanding, strong, confident self—she was uneasy and worried. But he knew, of course, that she was worried for nothing.

"Believe me. I like you very much for who you are."

Pyro looked at him in awe.

"You mean to tell me that you actually, genuinely_ like_ me? _Me_ me? As in, _me_?" she asked, completely floored.

"Absolutely."

"Can I ask why?"

"Must I say? You are intelligent. Talented. Strong, with a fierce, fiery passion burning inside you. You are compassionate, funny. Refreshing. Not to mention the fact that I find you absolutely irresistible."

Pyro was in even more shock. She was left absolutely speechless and disarmed by what he'd said.

"I...thank you. That's really very kind of you to say," she said in a tiny voice.

"Not kindness on my part. It's simply the truth."

"Yeah, I mean the fact that someone like you thinks about me like that is so astounding to me. But, uh, I think the same of you too, you know. I think you're pretty neat."

Spy couldn't help but grin a bit. Of all the things she was, a florid romantic she was not.

"I mean, you took me so off-guard with your personality. We discussed this, right? It was like, where did this guy come from? On the field you're all brutally calculating and manipulative and now you're just a normal man with kindness, a sense of humor, and honestly...the best laugh I've ever heard."

"Thank you. I do not agree on the last part."

"Yeah, well I don't really agree with any of your parts."

"Mine are fact."

"No, they're your opinion. You having the best laugh ever is just a hard fact. Look here," she said, pointing to a random sheet of paper. "It says so, right here. Spy has the best laugh. They weren't even testing for that."

"Thank you. Now I am convinced."

"Oh hush, you."

"It says right here," he said, grabbing another paper. "that Miss Barbara is the fiercest, most beautiful woman in this city."

"Buuuuuuuunch of lies," she drawled. "And speaking of my name, I still don't even know yours."

"For a reason."

"Yeah, but you know my name."

"By accident."

"Come on! That isn't fair."

"You make a compelling argument," he said wryly.

"Don't you think so? Don't you think that if we're going to be romantically involved I should get to call you something that isn't your job title?"

"It is too risky right now."

"Come on, pleeeeease?" she pleaded, tapping his arm incessantly.

"If you think that's going to—" He was abruptly cut off by a sudden, forceful kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a red lipstick residue on his face. He turned to face her and his lips were assaulted by hers, further smearing his face in the sticky red cosmetic. He pulled back, jolted.

"Ahem. You know, for a woman whose experience in being feminine amounts to a week-long crash course from a man, you have caught on to the art of utilizing feminine wiles in an alarmingly quick manner," he said, attempting to wipe the lipstick from his face. He moved his hands to adjust his crooked tie, but hers were quicker. She smirked, yanked on his tie, and brought his face close to hers.

"I only learned from the best."

* * *

><p>¹ see: spinal tap<p>

HhahHAHa yeah so that was super cheesy but i hope you liked it!


	17. Day Tripper

_Chapter Seventeen: Day Tripper_

* * *

><p>"And who would that be?" Spy asked with a quirked brow.<p>

"You," she whispered, hesitantly cupping his masked face in her hands. She slowly kissed him again, feeling his hands on her back and on the nape of her neck. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she kissed this man—a thing she'd never thought she, of all people, would do. They instantly broke apart, however, after hearing rustling on the sofa.

"Barb? Whassat noise?" rasped Nadine.

"Nothin', Nay. Go back to sleep." With that, she did.

"It's super late," Pyro said after a bit of silence, suppressing a yawn and standing up. "I'm gonna retire for tonight. How about you?"

"There is still much work for me to do. I'll be here planning for a bit longer."

"If you insist. Good night," she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before entering her bedroom.

"Good night, ma cherie," he replied, returning to his work. Based on the information they'd gathered, Gray Mann would be attending a charity banquet tomorrow evening to which Saxton and his entourage were also invited. There, he would reveal his acquisition to a small selection of important people. The plan for tomorrow was that Nadine would talk up Gray Mann and try to get some information out of him while the Pyro and Spy kept a close eye on her. A difficult task, but not wholly impossible.

After another half hour of planning, he stopped and held his head in his hands. How had his life gone so upside-down in a matter of days? This thought kept nagging at him—last week he was a lone wolf, business as usual, consistent day-in and day-out job of stabbing and shooting people. Now he was trying to overthrow a world dictator and even had a becoming partner by his side. What was this, a knockoff Bond film?

He decided to call it a night and got up to lie down on the couch perpendicular to Nadine's. If everything went according to plan, they'd be fine. But as he knew, hardly anything ever did.

* * *

><p>Spy was gradually awoken the next morning by the Pyro's style crew that had set up shop to beautify her once again. He observed her from across the room as she made her transformation. They picked skirts for her, applied her makeup, feathered her hair, argued over the best perfume in which to douse her. She noticed the Spy spying on her through the commotion and gave him a small grin; he smirked in return. Eventually he got up and returned to his own room to change his clothes and freshen up. Though he was only a bit unkempt, in his mind, he looked like a complete mess.<p>

When the Pyro was finished, she arose from her chair and thanked her stylists, making her way towards Nadine.

"Wake up, Nay, it's 11:30!" Nadine shot up from her position and scrambled off of the sofa, disheveled.

"SHIT, I MISSED THE FREE BREAKFAST!"

"Calm down, this place doesn't have free breakfast!"

"WHAT?! NO FREE BREAKFAST? WHAT A RIPOFF!"

"Stop yelling!" Pyro said. Nadine huffed and smoothed back her wild, curly black hair.

"No free breakfast. Hmph. What kind of place is this?"

"Calm down. It's a super high-class place. If you want, I'll buy you the biggest, most beautiful breakfast you can possibly eat."

"Really?" she asked, eyes shining. "You'd do that for lil ol' me?"

"Yes, I'll do it for lil ol' you."

"AHH, YOU'RE THE BEST, BARB!" Nadine shouted, throwing her arms around the Pyro.

"Don't mention it," she grumbled.

"Speakin' of food, where's the baguette?" Nadine asked, her question met with a knock on the door. The two women met eyes in amazement at the coincidence.

"What is this, Laugh-in?" Pyro said as she opened the door to reveal the Spy. She could almost hear the wild, cheesy laugh track in her mind as he walked in and greeted her.

"Lemme go fix myself up," Nadine said, hurrying to the bathroom. As the door closed, Pyro crossed her arms and made her way over to her masked mate.

"Hey, you. Spy," she said, giving him a look of mock contempt. "You know, I hope your name is actually 'Spy'. Just like mine is really 'Pyro.'"

"Are we going to go through this again?"

"Yes! If there's one thing I should know about you, at the very least...don't you think it should be your name?" she said. He grabbed a pen along with sheet of paper from the desk and deftly scribbled something out.

"What're you doing?"

He turned around and showed her the paper.

_'Antoine',_ the messy cursive read, scrawled in black ink. Without realizing it, a smile spread across the Pyro's face.

As quickly as he'd written it, the Spy swiftly brandished his torch lighter and set his name ablaze, letting the flames consume the cheap yellow paper. With the fire nearly at his fingers, he blew out the flames, leaving only a crumble of ash behind.

"Well, then. Now you know."

"About time, don't you think? It's only fair."

"I do want you to know that I'm cautiously trusting you with extremely confidential information," he said, adjusting his tie. "I cannot tell you anything else right now, for the sake of your own safety."

"It means a whole lot to me, something like that. Thank you for trusting me," she said quietly, with an appreciative gaze.

"Do not mention it," he said, exhaling wisps of smoke from his newly-lit cigarette.

"I won't."

"I'm all ready," Nadine announced, strutting out of the bathroom in...the Pyro's colorful polka dot dress and her heels from the week before.

"Nadine, what the hell are you doing in my dress?"

"I can't wear yesterday's clothes! I gotta look good! You've got such a fabulous wardrobe, ya know. Never woulda thought you to be the fashionable type-"

"Do you realize how much smaller than me you are? Look at yourself. You look like a starved orphan in that dress!"

"I do not!" she spat, the short sleeve of the dress slipping off of her shoulder. Nadine was a petite young woman with narrow shoulders and a tiny waist. Pyro, on the other hand, had large shoulders, wide hips, and a stocky, heavily-muscled build. She was six inches taller than Nadine, without heels. In the Pyro's clothes, she looked like she was drowning.

"So your clothes are a bit big on me. No big deal!"

"You look like a small child playing dress-up in her mother's clothing," remarked the Spy dryly.

"Nuh-uh, nobody asked you!" Nadine yelped, pointing her finger at the masked man.

"I am only telling the truth."

"It's okay, Nadine," Pyro assured. "We can go out, if you like. Get breakfast, do some shopping. How's that sound?"

"Sounds fantastic to me!" she said, glaring at the Spy.

With that, Nadine left with the two exasperated mercenaries in tow.

* * *

><p>"This one! This one! I can wear it to tonight's gala! Oh lawd, it is di-<em>vine<em>!" Nadine exclaimed. After an upscale breakfast, the trio had gone out to spend a day in town-mostly to placate the aforementioned shopaholic.

"It costs six hundred dollars," Pyro whispered with wide eyes, gripping the offensive price tag.

"Thought you said it was the 'company card'. Like Mistah Hale's gonna care that I splurged a little. He's like, a billionaire. What's it to him? And besides, I'm livin' out my fantasy here. I can finally do more than window shop," Nadine huffed, yanking the sparkly frock off the rack.

"Fine, whatever. Shop 'til you drop."

The Pyro flopped down on the armchair next to her male companion, sharing a look of mutual irritation. As the delegated "carrier", the Spy was covered in miscellaneous bags and boxes—along with a large yellow pashmina and a fashionable, wide-brimmed feather hat. A small stray feather drifted into his line of sight, and with a scowl, he aggressively blew it away.

"What have I been reduced to?" he groused, shifting around under the mountain of shopping debris. A lone bag toppled over carelessly.

"What, you don't see any suits you like here? I thought you were a fashion fiend," Pyro muttered while picking up the bag.

"These are despicable. Absolutely tacky. Why, I wouldn't wear a...houndstooth blazer if you paid me to."

"A what now?"

"That abomination," he growled, pointing out the monstrosity in front of him.

"Oh yeah. Well that definitely doesn't seem like your style."

"The positive opposite," he said, turning his nose up in the air. "When will that woman finish?"

"Ah, give her a break. I guess this is like being a kid in a candy store for her." A period of silence passed.

"This. This is what it's like."

"What what's like?"

"_Hell_," Spy breathed.

"Oh, will you cut it out? Quit complaining. Here, I'll help you," she grunted, picking up a handful of large bags. "You think I'm having a blast over here? You think I like being surrounded by this much glitter?"

"No. This is an outrage."

"Come on. I'm sure she's done right now. Isn't that right, Nay?" she called out, her hands cupped around her mouth.

"Uh. Yeah," she said tentatively, dumping all thirty articles of clothing down on the counter and handing the cashier the almighty card. After paying for her spree, Nadine shuffled over to the restless pair.

"Are you done?" Spy asked, clenching the handles of the bags he held.

"Yeah, yeah," she said with a flippant wave of her hand. She opened the door and walked into the streets of the city, putting her new sunglasses on. Instantly her face brightened as she spotted an Yves Saint Laurent shop across the street.

"Can we—"

"_NO!_" came the resounding answer from both parties.

"Worth a shot," she said with a simper.

* * *

><p>Surprisingly, sunglasses and a different hairstyle did wonders in letting the Pyro go largely unrecognized, garnering only a few suspicious glances. The group continued to wander throughout Manhattan, touring through the Upper East Side and making their way back to their hotel room by three in the afternoon. When the Pyro opened the door, the Spy stumbled in and cast the inordinate amount of shopping on the floor.<p>

"At least you got a good workout," Pyro laughed, placing the bags she was carrying on the table.

"Yes. Certainly. Quite the wonderful workout. Thank you, Nadine." Spy bit flatly, glaring at the offensive woman.

"Ya welcome!" she said, kissing him on the cheek. He rolled his eyes and said his goodbyes as he left to his room to prepare for the event.

"Jesus, stop flirting with everything with a pulse," Pyro joked. "Anyway, the party's at seven. so we need to be ready by six. Pick whatever you're going to wear now and make sure it's appropriate."

"Yeah, yeah. What are _you _wearin', Barb?"

"Hell if I know," she said with a careless shrug, retrieving a towel and throwing it over her shoulder.

"Whaddya mean 'hell if I know'? Do you not pick yer own outfits?"

"Pfft. Did you honestly think I did? Were you not here this morning? Were you not around me your entire life?"

"I was asleep this mornin', dumbass! Thought I missed free breakfast, remember? Besides, I thought you did a 180 yaself. You got people pickin' yer clothes, too?"

"Yeah. It's fine, honestly. Less work for me. I can think about the more important stuff."

"If you say so," Nadine replied with her hands in the air.

By the pair of women rinsed off the sweat and city grime in hot showers, the style crew had arrived. This time, they took especially good care of the Pyro, spending a painstaking amount of time on her hair and makeup. They lined her eyes, covered every last inch of her scars, and airbrushed her cheeks. They stretched and fluffed and feathered her hair to new, voluminous heights. This was a red carpet event and she had to look fit to be there. In the Pyro's eyes, they were magicians. Good enough magicians to take a war-weathered mercenary and turn her into a beauty queen.

After her whole head was finished being poked, prodded, and coated in products, she slipped into her dress—a floor-length, sleeveless forest-green evening gown adorned with lace and a high neck. A tennis bracelet, diamond earrings, and designer bag later, she slipped into her silver pumps and was ready to go.

"Ooh, Barbie, ya look breathtaking!" Nadine shrieked as she applied her earrings.

"Please don't ever call me Barbie," Pyro said through clenched teeth, raising her arms so one of the stylists could adjust her dress.

"Oh, loosen up!"

"I'm serious! I'm not a doll, Nay. Besides, I look just fine. You look breathtaking," she insisted, gesturing towards Nadine's sleek updo and silver, bedazzled, one-shouldered Halston gown.

"Oh, you," she said with a bashful hand wave. A knock on the door resounded throughout the room and Nadine walked over, opening the door for the tuxedo-clad man waiting. As he sauntered in, he realized that he was very lucky that he was such an expert in hiding his reactions. He nearly dropped his open cigarette case at the sight of the woman with her arms up in the air. Gazing at her, he managed to look only slightly surprised and not completely in awe.

"Like what ya see?" Nadine taunted with a wink.

"Absolutely none of your business," Spy said forcibly, adjusting his bowtie.

"Come on, quit busting his chops," Pyro said, slipping on a ring that was handed to her by a rogue stylist. "I'm sure he thinks I look okay enough. I'm pretty handsome if I do say so myself."

"Handsome? Don't sell yaself short, ya look gorgeous. Bank robber here," she said, thumbing at the Spy. "looks handsome. But you, you look stunning!"

"I resent that," The Spy said curtly, glaring at Nadine. He turned to the Pyro. "However...you do look quite lovely," he said reservedly, taking her manicured hand in his gloved one. The woman in question blushed lightly, still far from used to being complimented on her appearance.

"Doesn't she?"

"Totally flawless!" Spy sang, suddenly disguised as Fabio. With all three ready, they made their way into the lobby and were bombarded by waiting paparazzi as soon as the elevator doors opened. Cries of_"Who's the silver one?!"_ and the like reverberated throughout the hall as the crowd saw Nadine and became hungrily curious as to who she was. Saxton Hale, adorned in his usual getup plus a bowtie, flung an assortment of people out of the way to reach his entourage and lead them to the limousine that awaited.

"OUT' THE WAY, YA BLOODY MONGRELS! BLOODY HELL!" he roared, flinging open the limousine door and allowing the three to enter first. He squeezed himself in and as soon as the door met the frame, the limo was off into the streets.

"SO, THE PLAN FOR TONIGHT IS THIS: NADINE'S GONNA TRY TO TALK UP THAT SLIMY, GRAY, SORRY EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING. AND WE'LL KEEP OUR DISTANCE SO HE DOESN'T GET SUSPICIOUS," said Saxton.

"That's right," Pyro replied. "Nadine, you've got to hide when we get out because you're exiting a little while after us. Remember, you're Greta Lindström and you're the new up-and-coming Swedish starlet. You've been in some Saxton Hale movies and plan to take your career up to the next level."

"Ah, yes, certainly!" she said, practicing her campy Swedish accent. Within half an hour, the wide stretch limo slunk up to the front of venue and with Nadine out of sight, Saxton Hale, his fake girlfriend, and her fake assistant stepped out into the swaths of flashing lights, barricades, and red carpet.


	18. A Gala to Remember

i should also note that at this point i had some trouble deciding where i wanted to take this story, since i was sort of at a crossroads. when i drew up the storyboard years ago, the tf2 canon was WAY simpler. the comics are much more complicated now (check out the latest one!), so please forgive me for deviating. the writers are throwing me for a loop here.

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Eighteen: A Gala to Remember<em>

* * *

><p>Silver platform heels met red velvet as the Pyro stepped out of the limo and into the public eye. If she was a deer, the flashbulbs bathed her in what felt like dozens of headlights at once. However, despite her nerves, she remembered what she was taught and went through the motions, posing and grinning nonstop.<p>

Suddenly, a thunderous roar echoed throughout the area. Amid the commotion and flashing lights, a rogue magazine editor let loose a hungry rented bear for Saxton Hale to ravage. Without hesitation, Hale grabbed the bear and briskly wrestled it to the ground, goading it all the while. The crowd went wild, snapping photos and screaming as the burly Australian triumphantly hiked his boot atop the unconscious bear in victory. A microphone was abruptly thrust into Pyro's face.

"Ms. O'Brien," the reporter began. "how do you feel about Mr. Hale wrestling animals?" Pyro cleared her throat and straightened her back.

"Delighted. It's wonderfully masculine and sexy. He keeps fit and brings home dinner to boot," she said glibly, gauging the reaction of the people listening and trying to keep from gagging at the words that'd just come out of her mouth. Judging by the cheers, they'd eaten it right up.

As Saxton and the Pyro posed with the bear for pictures, the Spy hesitantly melted away to scour the area. Though he felt apprehensive about leaving her alone, he was wholly confident in the Pyro's ability to handle herself.

When the muscle duo finally began moving down the red carpet, Nadine stepped out of the limousine and was met with feral interrogation coupled with furious picture-snapping. Greta Lindström, the hottest, newest up-and-coming starlet had graced the red carpet. Her exotic accent coupled with her dark features further increased her mysterious air as she sashayed along, stopping for pictures.

"She's loving every minute of this. It's like she was made for this sort of thing," Pyro whispered to Saxton.

"SHE'S A NATURAL, INDEED," Saxton whispered back.

"Mr. Hale, can I have a picture with you?" a young man called out.

"ABSOLUTELY!" he yelled back reflexively. Never one to leave fans disappointed, he raced down the aisle.

Truly alone now, the Pyro began to get anxious and carefully continued on. Almost inside the building's lobby, she at last began to feel a sense of relief and no longer felt quite as overwhelmed. All of a sudden, she turned around and bumped into none other than Donald Watson.

"Why hello there," he crooned. "You look absolutely astonishing this evening. Goodness, Mr. Hale is such a lucky man."

"Thank you," she replied, not forgetting his actions from earlier that week. "You know, what you did the other day was very—"

"Yes, yes, and I do apologize. Very uncouth of me to sneak pictures like that. But you yourself must know how hard it is to get a good picture of you. A beautiful woman such as you is always surrounded by groups of people."

"That's true, I suppose," she said. She was beginning to get an odd vibe from him, but she couldn't put her finger on why exactly.

"Of course it's true. Look at you. Absolute stunner, you are. People can't get enough of you," he mused, taking her hand in his and spinning her around. "My, you smell absolutely delicious! What is it you're wearing?"

"L'air du Temps," she answered, thankful to her stylists for arguing over her perfume in front of her.

"Of course a lady like you would wear something so classy and sweet," he murmured. "Well, I've got to run, for now, dear. Many other celebrities to photograph...none of which as beautiful as you, of course. So long!"

"U-uh, yeah," Pyro muttered uncertainly, running her fingers through her hair and watching his figure disappear into the crowd. Another strange encounter with a remarkably strange man. In fact, the whole shindig felt bizarre and surreal to her, as though she were in a dream. No matter, it was time she found her pretend-boyfriend and her seat in the reception hall.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, our favorite master of espionage was already there, disguised as one of the event planners making last-minute touches. With a floral centerpiece in his hands, he made his way near Gray Mann, who was on the phone with someone.<p>

"Absolutely preposterous, I know, Olivia," he grumbled quietly over his chunky cellular phone. "Not allowing children is utterly unfair. But it won't be long, dear…"

"Hey, Larry!" the manager snapped at the Spy. "People are comin' in now! Get this shit together, pronto!" Spy cursed internally and continued setting up, trying his hardest to listen in on the decrepit old man all the while.

After greeting a few people on their way, Saxton Hale and the Pyro found their seats at the center of the large, rectangular banquet table that sat near the expansive dance floor. As expected, they were seated across from Gray Mann, who'd gotten off the phone and was giving them haughty looks. Smooth jazz began to waft throughout the hall and waiters with trays of hors d'oeuvres made their rounds with crostini, cocktail shrimp, and gougères. Spy finished setting up and became one of them, carrying his tray of shrimp and offering them to each table. He reached Nadine's table—a few tables away from Saxton's—and offered her shrimp. She accepted it without thought and hadn't even recognized him. Perfect. He made his way towards the big table and completed his routine once again, though he noticed the Pyro took her shrimp with a long glance at his face.

When he finally finished his rounds, the Spy disappeared into the men's bathroom and exited as Fabio, returning to the table at a seat next to the Pyro.

"Thanks for the shrimp," she mouthed to him. He gave her a small, knowing grin, while Gray Mann and Saxton Hale held their own staring contest. Saxton glared daggers at Gray while Gray smirked as sinisterly as he could. Their eye war was soon broken as an actual waiter approached and took their drink orders.

"And for you, sir?" he asked, facing the Spy. He cleared his throat.

"Just water," he said. The Pyro, recalling the incident from the week before, gave him a look of approval. This mission could not afford a snafu.

"Water for me too, please." she said, hands clasped together.

"Excellent," the waiter said, nodding and jotting down the orders. He turned towards Gray. "All ready, sir?"

"I'm not quite sure," he began, stroking his chin and browsing the beverage menu. "There is so much to choose from—"

"May I make a suggestion? Try a sherry...Amontillado, to be exact," the Spy said. It was a long shot, but he had to try. If the Spy was a lightweight, so much as a sniff of their strongest wine should be enough to intoxicate Gray. The feeble man stared at him for a bit in contempt, not a fan of having other people tell him what to order.

_The nerve,_ he thought. To appear cordial, however, he agreed.

"Fine, then. The sherry it is."

"Wonderful choice, sir. And for you, Mr. Hale?"

"GIVE ME YOUR BEST WHISKEY," he announced, stroking his moustache.

"Uh, coming right up," the the waiter replied, pocketing his pad and leaving the table. Saxton and Gray immediately continued their intense staring contest, prompting an awkward silence from everyone seated at the table. It wasn't until their drinks arrived when they stopped.

"AH YES, THANKS!" said Saxton as he downed the entire glass of whiskey in one swig and smashed the glass on the granite floor.

"ANOTHER!"

"Ah, yes, sir. Right away," the waiter said, giving everyone their drinks. Gray took a sip of his sherry, keeping eye contact with the Spy over the rim of his glass.

"Hm," he muttered, smacking his lips. "Quite good...in fact, one of the best wines I've ever tasted. You certainly know your alcohol, sir."

"Thank you! I fancy myself a bit of a wino," Spy-Fabio replied bashfully, covering his mouth and waving his hand.

Over the course of the next two hours, they'd received their dinner and many more drinks. The Pyro got to practice her socializing techniques with other high-profile attendees at the table, successfully conversing about music and fashion. Both the Spy and Pyro, not willing to risk an important mission that needed all of their attention and more, continued ordering water. Saxton ordered glass after glass of whiskey and somehow hadn't batted an eyelash—due to his tall, burly stature and amount of food consumption, he was still perfectly sober. Gray, on the other hand, was thoroughly buzzed. Like the Spy, he'd underestimated the alcoholic content of his wine and had ordered two full glasses.

At that point in the party, most of the attendants were dancing or milling about—save for Gray anchored to his chair, trying to regain his bearings. Nadine, who was scouting the scene for a good opportunity, had him right in her crosshairs as she approached him…

...and promptly sat herself in his lap.

"Oh, Mr. Mann," she breathed dramatically. "I have heard so much about you!"

"What _-hic-_ have you heard?" he asked warily. He recognized her as that Swedish actress everyone was talking about, but what did she want with him?

"Just that you are an absolute _stud,_" she said in a low voice, batting her eyelashes and flashing him a flirtatious grin.

"A what now?"

"You know," she hummed, subtly tugging down her neckline and hiking up the hem of her skirt. "a stud. Charming and witty. Undeniably handsome. A silver fox." She gently bit her red lip and tugged at his silver tie. A waiter passed by and Nadine, who knew what to order, requested another glass of sherry.

"I don't...I don't think I'd think I should_ -hic-_ have any more," he grunted, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't physically strong enough to get her off of him even if he wanted to, let alone while intoxicated.

"Oh, but of course you should," she sang, as she slung her arm around his scrawny shoulders. The glass of sherry arrived and was placed in front of Gray, much to his dismay.

"Drink up, handsome," she said, putting her lips to his wrinkled cheek. And so, against every last, dwindling, rational thought that ran through his head, Gray brought the glass to his cracked lips and let the golden liquid burn his throat.

"So, enough about me! What do you do?" Nadine asked.

"I'm...a businessman," he exhaled, slamming the empty glass down on the table. Little had he known that across from them was a wired, note-taking, completely cloaked Spy.

"Oh, really? How impressive," she whispered in his ear. "Mmm. What kind of business?"

"I, well, that's uh, a bit—"

"Waiter! More, please!"

* * *

><p><em>Keep on runnin', runnin', from my love…<em>

Another couple of hours later and one of Stevie Wonder's newest hits filled the ears of everyone moving on the packed dance floor. Fast, heavy bass reverberated throughout the hall as white reflections from the large disco ball overhead danced from wall to wall. Rainbow lights swung in all directions, keeping to the beat of the music.

On the dance floor, the Pyro shyly moved to the beat. They'd never practiced contemporary dancing during her training, which she silently regretted. Luckily for her, Saxton grabbed her hand and led the way, blasting through the crowd towards the center of the dance floor. They'd danced to their hearts' content, and well to boot. People on the floor began clapping and stomping to the beat, cheering and taking pictures. Despite the dark, sweaty, music-filled air, the pair at the center of attention was having the time of their lives, grooving to the music and showing off their moves.

"And you've run out of this...Australium, huh?" Nadine said, tapping her chin in mock-thought.

"Yesh...I don't have mush left," Gray slurred. "I took Mann Co. from Sakshton Hale...gave it to my daughter, Livia…through technicality."

"Oh, my. And then what?"

"Going tuh...run my world_-hic-_wide empire. Was going tuh run it forever and ever...then that _bitsh_, Helen! Took all my Aushtralyum," he grumbled, weakly pounding his fists on the table.

"Oh, that's terrible. Absolutely dreadful."

"I've come so closhe to _-hic- _finding her. I don't know how...she always one shtep ahead of me. She'll be at the Shackshies...then I'll get her and her Aushtralyum shtash…" he trailed off.

Spy furiously jotted down in shorthand all that he heard from both parties, verbatim. Though he had a wire, any spy worth their salt knew that redundancy was key. Annoyingly, he found that people walking around were constantly brushing past him and exposing his cloak. He moved from seat to seat while invisible, avoiding running into people and simultaneously keeping track of Gray Mann's most awful case of verbal diarrhea.

At that very moment Gray's cell phone began to ring. He groaned and clumsily reached to answer it.

"Yez, h'lo? Liva? Yeah, s'me. No, I'm not dunk. Don't you raise your voiz at me, young lady. I am your fahder. For the last time, I'm not. Dunk. I am poshitvely fine, it'sh not like I am some fool who vomits information at the _-hic-_ drop of a hat!" He continued to argue with her in that manner for another ten minutes, as Nadine awkwardly twiddled her thumbs in his lap while caressing him from time to time. To her alarm, he'd hung up and managed to get his head on more straight thanks to the phone call.

"_Ahem._ Anyway, yesh. Can't really get into the details of the business," he said, clearing his throat and adjusting his clothes. Nadine recognized the turning of the tides and decided to play it safe.

"I understand completely, Mr. Mann. I've got to go use the ladies' room. How about I give to you my telephone number?"

"That would be_ -hic-_ wonderful, Ms. Lindström." With that, Nadine scrawled out the number to the local pizzeria and saucily slipped it in his front pocket. She began to leave when Gray had a sudden, panicked realization and grabbed her wrist in a last-ditch attempt to reverse his actions.

"U-uh, excuse me. How would you like to do work with me at Mann Co.? It will be mine within days and you—"

"Thank you very much for the offer, but I will have to think about it and talk to my agent," she said, pulling away.

"I—"

"I shall be seeing you later...you sexy hunk," she moaned. As Nadine pranced off to the restroom and the clock struck midnight, the music smoothly transitioned from the upbeat Stevie Wonder song to an extended cut of the lilting _Color My World_ by Chicago, a classic slow-dance song. People paired up into a couples and held each other close, swaying to the music. Saxton Hale, who despised slow dances, mysteriously disappeared from the dance floor near the very end of the last song.

_Of course he disappears now. What a fuckin' coincidence,_ Pyro thought to herself, staring at the swaying couples around her, the single lone person. Except, not quite—a familiar tall, dark figure emerged from the crowd and approached her.

"Good evening, my dear," said Donald. "How does a woman as striking as you not have a partner?"

"Well—"

"No matter. How would you like to dance with me?" he offered, extending his hand.

She would've never, ever said yes. But in the heat of the moment, in the dark room and hot lights, in the midst of hundreds of sweaty bodies coupled up and swaying around her, not wanting to look rude nor pathetic—she reluctantly answered in the affirmative, and took his hand in hers. While Donald expected to simply sway her back and forth like the others, Pyro decided put her traditional ballroom dancing skills to good use. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

"Do you know how to waltz?" He raised his eyebrows.

"You bet I do." The two then began to slowly waltz across the dance floor, spinning each other around with the occasional dip. She even found that dancing with him was—dare she say, not as bad as she thought. He was quite attractive, after all...despite his slightly eerie demeanor. Because everyone else was concentrated on their partner, nobody even noticed they were dancing together.

Except for the Spy.

He was still keeping an eye on Gray Mann until he spotted the Pyro in that _gremlin's_ filthy arms. How could she ever have agreed to something like that? His jealousy fired up as he hastily arose and walked behind a column, uncloaking and coming out of the other side straight towards the dance floor. Gray was inebriated and he surely wasn't going anywhere. The masked man figured he deserved a break.

He grabbed a nearby woman by the hand and began to waltz with her as well—luckily for her, she was too shocked to register what was happening. As the Spy swiftly neared the Pyro and Donald, he waited for them to break briefly before breaking as well. He deftly changed partners at the split second that ensured Donald uniting with the random woman and he, the Pyro. Donald, alarmed, instantly broke hold with his partner and looked about frantically.

But it was of no use. They had effortlessly moved across the densely-packed floor, out of sight. The Pyro was in the Spy's arms now, which the Spy thought was obviously a much better fit. Her eyes were closed when she entered his embrace and when they flew open...what a surprise. She did a double take and her eyes widened until her whites were completely visible around her irises. An overflow of thoughts exploded in her head.

_Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Did he drug me or something? Am I seeing shit or—_

"Shh," the Spy murmured preemptively. "It's me."

"What the hell? How did you do that?" she whispered furiously. He gripped her tightly and smirked.

"Does it really matter?" Pyro didn't answer and so they continued to dance. He held her closer and she noticed that she felt infinitely more comfortable dancing with him than she did anyone else. Eyes glued to each other's, they edged their way to the dimly-lit fringes of the dance floor and Pyro was relieved to find that, for once, she wasn't the center of attention. They danced for a bit and the Spy decided to try something daring. With her hands clasped around his neck and his hands firmly gripped on her waist, he hoisted her into the air.

He would've paid good money to see that expression on her face again. The sheer look of shock, awe, alarm, fright, and "I'm-going-to-set-you-on-fire" was completely worth whatever punishment would follow. He carefully put her back down and held her.

"You sneaky bastard," she spat, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Correct," he said with a snide chuckle. He wasn't snide for long, however. Pyro pulled back a bit and firmly placed her hands on the Spy's waist. As he instantly knew what she planned to do, he activated his cloak—but not quickly enough. She firmly lifted him in the air and caught sight of his startled expression before he melted away. Luckily for her, nobody caught sight of her lifting her assistant into the air, or vice-versa. She cautiously put him down as he re-materialized.

"You unruly ball of fire," he murmured playfully. How did he not see that coming? He was dancing with the strongest woman he knew; of course she would lift him back if he lifted her—no matter the circumstances.

"Correct," she replied, parroting him. She wrapped her arms around him and for the rest of the dance, they stayed in their dark corner with their heads against each other's.

Donald, after a minute of searching, finally spotted them across the floor and began to storm over to them, practically shoving couples out of the way. The song was on its way out, however, and by the time he finally reached them and opened his mouth, it promptly ended. The lights came on and all the couples broke, clapping and filing back to their seats. As _Take Five_ by Dave Brubeck began to quietly fill the hall, the enraged journalist lurched forward and instantly grabbed the Pyro's hand.

"Haha, I'm, uh, quite sorry you were, _ahem._ Stolen from me," he said breathlessly, topped off with a nervous chuckle. "Of course everyone wants to dance with such a gorgeous woman."

"Ah, um. It's alright, you know. Next time," she said with a shrug, knowing full well there would be no next time. To the Spy's disgust, Donald hastily kissed her hand and bid her farewell.

Pyro and Spy took their seats and in minutes, dessert and coffee were served. For the most part, the people seated talked minimally and focused mainly on their desserts. Gray Mann, still buzzed, held his head in his hands as his regrets for his previous actions began flooding his brain. He was a genius, a bona-fide prodigy—how did a sultry, seductive siren manage to lure him in and leech who knows how much information from him? How did she know what buttons to push? Nothing added up. He'd have to worry about it later, when he had a clearer head. For now, however, it was time to make the exclusive early announcement about his acquisition of Mann Co.

The frail, wiry man hobbled up to the center of the floor with a glass and spoon, tinking his spoon against the glass. He cleared his throat.

"If I may have your _-hic-_ attention," he began, weaving back and forth. "I, Gray Mann, successful businessman and owner of Gray Gravel Co., would like to proudly announce the impending acquisition of Mann Co. Through a series of negotiations and _-hic-_ mutual agreements, the fine Mr. Hale and I have struck a deal. After the Fourth Annual Saxxy Awards, he and I will sign off on this _-hic-_ exciting new prospect!"

A tangible, heavy silence hung in the spacious room, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The only sound came from Saxton, who rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly.

Suddenly, a lone clap echoed throughout the hall. The lone clapper was Nadine, who stayed true to her character until the end. When people saw the sensational starlet clapping, they began clapping as well. A few tables at first, and in no time nearly everyone in attendance was clapping awkwardly.

"I'm sure I can make Mann Co. even better under my power," he said. "Thank you, and goodnight."

At that, he exited the hall and quickly entered his waiting limo outside, driving off into the night. As the rest of the attendants began to file out of the hall, Pyro, Spy, Saxton, and Nadine all exchanged glances. The first three hastily filed into the limo, circled the block, and came back fifteen minutes later for Nadine. The whole group finally together again, a comfortable silence settled in as the limo slinked through the illuminated streets.

"So," the Spy began. "Let us discuss."


	19. We're Staying in America, Soldier

_Chapter Nineteen: We're Staying in America, Soldier_

* * *

><p>"DISCUSS?" Saxton shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "WELL, I'LL TELL YE ONE THING. I HATE THE MAN'S GUTS! CAN'T WAIT TO WRING HIS SHRIVELED, PUNY LITTLE NECK—"<p>

"In due time," Pyro reassured, patting his knee. He took a deep breath and sulked.

"You know, that was literally the worst thing I've ever had to do," Nadine said. "I had to kiss him. Didja know that? I had to fuckin' kiss the man. He's over 200 years old and I kissed him!" At this, Pyro snorted.

"Did you really? You had to go that far?"

"YES I had to go that far! You were dancin' away, I was seducin' a man old enough to be my great-great-great grandfatha!"

"Nadine and Gray Mann, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g—"

"SHUT YA MOUTH, THAT'S DISGUSTING!"

"First comes love—"

"CUT IT OUT!"

"Then comes marriage—"

"STOP!"

"Then comes a baby in a—"

"SHUT IT!" Pyro paused and stared at Nadine for almost thirty seconds.

"..._Babycarriage,_" she said quickly, laughing at Nadine's steamed reaction.

"You know, Barb, you really have not changed a bit. You teased me when we were little tater tots and you're teasin' me now."

"Yeah, I know. I can't help myself, sorry. You're just so easy to pick on," she said with a chuckle. "Anyway, did you get anything juicy out of him?"

"Hah. Yeah, ask french fry over here. He's got a whole transcript and a tape."

"I certainly do," the Spy interjected. "We'll discuss this at the hotel."

Comfortable silence settled in as the shiny black limo slunk through the light city traffic and past all the places they'd visited earlier that day. At 3AM, the exhausted group finally reached the hotel. After they'd made their way upstairs and bid each other goodnight, the Pyro unlocked her door and stepped into her room. She glanced behind her and realized that Nadine and the Spy had also come in.

"Am I hosting you guys tonight, too?" she said with crossed arms and a grin.

"I'm not goin' all the way back to Queens _now_," Nadine whined, also crossing her arms.

"I thought we were going to brief you on what occurred tonight," Spy said, removing his suit jacket and undoing his bowtie.

"Yeah, true. I guess I don't mind some extra guests," she mused, flopping down on the couch.

"You alright, Barb?"

"Fine, just can't wait to get out of this outfit." Pyro immediately stood up, kicked off her high heels, and reached around to try to unzip the back of her dress.

"You do that, I'm gonna go remove my makeup," Nadine said, heading to the bathroom. The Pyro continued to try to unzip the back of her dress to no avail, fumbling with the flimsy zipper. After watching this pitiful sight for a whole minute, the Spy approached her and offered to help.

"I've got it, I've got it," Pyro assured.

"Obviously not. Here, allow me," he suggested.

Pyro relented and hesitantly removed her hands. In one smooth motion, the Spy gripped the top of her dress and carefully unzipped it. Before she quickly turned around, he caught a glimpse of her bra and muscled, scar-riddled back and was instantly glad he volunteered to help.

"Thank you. I, uh. I'm gonna—going to go change. Be right back," she said, shuffling into her bedroom.

"My pleasure," the Spy called out, undoing the top couple of buttons of his shirt and doffing his shoes. "What did you think of tonight's event?"

"You know, I actually had a pretty good time," she called back. "How about you?"

"Well, besides spying on an intoxicated fossil and having to get that gremlin off of you, it was not so bad. Why did you dance with him, in any case?"

"It's stupid. I felt pressured to, I guess. I was the only person alone on that huge dance floor."

"You could've asked me. Did you think I would've minded?"

"Oh, you were doing your job all the way across the place. I didn't want to bother you. Besides, he's really not that terrible. I've met worse."

"He's not terrible?" Spy asked with a hint of incredulity. "He used guerrilla tactics to take pictures of you. I would not trust him. For all you know, he could have asked to dance with you and then stabbed you."

"It would be a pretty laughably stupid move to stab me in front of hundreds of people. I don't know if he's that dumb."

"What, are you defending him?" he teased. "Do you have a sort of crush on him or something?"

"Furthest thing from it," Pyro laughed, returning to the living area in a very baggy t-shirt and shorts. "I don't have crush on anyone."

"Really. Nobody?" Spy raised an eyebrow and sat on the sofa, putting his arms behind his head. Pyro sat next to him and folded her legs.

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe there's one person on my radar. Who knows."

"Who might that be?"

"Who cares?" she said with a mischievous grin.

"I am curious. Perhaps I know him."

"Hm, maybe you do. If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone?"

"You have my word."

"Okay," she said, leaning close to his ear. "His name is Antoine." It felt rather queer to refer to the Spy as his name and not his class, but it also felt oddly exhilarating.

"Ah yes, he. From what I have heard, he is quite a man," he replied with a smirk, taking a drag of his cigarette and exhaling. "I'll have you know I've taken a liking to someone, as well." The Pyro felt her heart rate increasing, despite knowing exactly where he was going with his sentiments. She contained her smile and pressed on.

"_Ahem._ May I know who that might be?" she asked. Spy leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"Her name is Barbara."

"Oh, her. Yeah, I hear she's all right," she said with a laugh. Her laughter dwindled as she found herself precariously close to her partner's face, their eyes meeting each other's.

"_Hey_, what's goin' on, lovebirds?" Nadine announced loudly, stepping out of the bathroom with a fresh face.

"For God's sake, Nay!"

"Sorry I peed on your love parade here. What the hell was I just seein', anyway? Were my eyes servin' me right?"

"We were just having a psychic conversation," Pyro reassured, clearing her throat. She promptly rose from the couch and headed over to the bathroom to clean her face, leaving the Spy and Nadine sitting alone together in an awkward silence.

"I'll have you know that I appreciate your assistance," he told her.

"Thank you." Another awkward silence hung in the air, permeated by the faint sound of splashing water.

"Just so you know, baguette," Nadine said, raising her index finger and glaring at the Spy. "If you even think about using her or somethin' like that...I'll make a goddamn sandwich outta you."

"I wouldn't even dream of it," he shot back sternly, lighting another cigarette as the Pyro stepped out of the bathroom. When she took her seat on the couch again, the trio spent time discussing the night's occurrences.

"So the Administrator ran away with her Australium cache and Gray Mann says hes going to 'get' them. Her and the Australium," Pyro said, fiddling around with a throw pillow with it as she spoke.

"Yep. He's probably trackin' 'em down right now. Well, if he ain't hungover."

"Knowing the Administrator, she is hiding the Australium somewhere completely obscure. I am almost sure of it. For all we know, it could be a mile under the sea," said the Spy.

"First thing's first, though—we've got to, uh...'take care' of both Gray Mann and the Administrator. Both Mann Co. and TF Industries would be better run under Saxton Hale, so surely we can arrange for that," Pyro said.

"We can do that?" Nadine asked, surprised.

"Nadine, we just passed you off as a Swedish movie star. To the whole press. And we got Gray Mann drunk. I think we can do fuckin' anything," Pyro said with a quiet laugh. Her insistence on a colorful word choice did not go unnoticed by the Spy and he gave her an amused look.

"Tsk. _Mon Dieu_," he said with an amused expression. "Still such filth from the mouth of a—"

"Oh, come_ on_. Will you quit harping on me? It's been two weeks already!" He gave her a smirk.

"Yet you still have not learned. And it reflects rather badly on me, if I may say. At any rate," he said, turning to Nadine. "I'll have you know that we are highly skilled mercenaries. There is very little that we cannot do."

"If you guys say so," she said with a yawn. "Y'know, t's already four in the mornin'. I think I'm gonna turn in for tonight."

"Yeah, we had a really busy day," Pyro responded, rising from her seat to turn off the lights and turn on the TV. When she sat back down, she lowered the volume with the clunky remote and Nadine bid them both goodnight, rolling over and almost instantly falling asleep. After a quiet, comfortable stillness settled in, the Pyro turned and faced the Spy, the dull blue glow of the small TV screen flickering on their faces.

"You're going to sleep here again, right?"

"I am already comfortable. I might as well," he reasoned, shifting the pillows around and adjusting his position a bit. He wasn't about to tell her his real reasoning behind his excuses. "Arent you going to go to sleep?"

"I wish. Despite the really hectic day we had, I'm feeling weirdly restless and fidgety. Like, my body's exhausted and my mind is still racing. I think I'm just going to watch some TV for a bit."

"Suit yourself. Goodnight, ma chérie," said the Spy.

"Goodnight," Pyro said with a small, tired smile. An indefinite amount of time passed as she gazed warmly at the exceedingly rare sight of her partner's relaxed, dozing form, focusing intently on his tranquil countenance and the slow rise and fall of his chest, paying no attention to whatever late-night programming was on the air.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, in Teufort, New Mexico, members of the BLU team sat in their communal living room, letting the same flickering lights cast shadows on their faces. To celebrate their latest victory against RED (albeit a close one), they popped open the Engineer's new shipment of Blu Streak lager and gathered to watch the cheesy late movie on TV.<p>

"You know," the Sniper piped up, "I don't particularly care for our new spook. Not nearly as good as our old one."

"Finally, someone's got 'round to sayin' it!" the Engineer agreed wholeheartedly, slamming his bottle down on the side table. "Our other Spy was a damn expert, never had to worry a minute about him. The new one, well, it done look like they picked him up off the streets of Teufort. And he insists on wearin' that stupid hat."

"Yeah, he calls it a 'gibus'," Scout chimed in, cackling. "Looks dumb as shit."

"Our old Spy wouldn't be caught dead in that shonky piece of trash," muttered the Sniper. "I don't like the looks of him."

"Speakin' of subpar teammates, our new Pyro ain't nearly as good as our last guy, either. The other Spy's constantly in my business and where's the fire at? Nowhere as far as the eye can see! Other guy, he was always lookin' out for my gear. Rarely did I ever have a sapper gummin' up the works. Old Pyro knew what he was doin'—heck, he even made a sledgehammer that short-circuited sappers. If I wasn't there, he'd take care of 'em. It was a darn godsend! Now, sappers left n' right, all over the place. It's just unacceptable," the Engineer grumbled, taking a swig from his beer.

"Oh yeah, I'm seein' that constantly. Like, come on! The other guy was a freakin' weirdo who never showed his face, but, uh, ya know. He was our freakin' weirdo," Scout replied with a shrug.

Instantly, a trampling of footsteps echoed throughout the outside hallway. When the three mercenaries looked up, they found Ms. Pauling standing in the doorway of the living room, panting slightly and holding a briefcase. Scout consciously puffed out his chest and flexed his wiry muscles in a subtle attempt to woo the purple-clad woman.

"Scout, Sniper, Engineer...we've got to get out of here," she announced.

"Wait, wot? Why?" asked the Sniper, frantically donning his sunglasses.

"I'll explain later. We've got a flight to catch."

All nine mercenaries headed by Ms. Pauling filed down the wide, dimly-lit corridors, giving each other confused looks and shrugs. They exited the base into a large outdoor lot where the same private jet that took the Pyro and Spy awaited them. After Ms. Pauling briskly boarded the men and sat them down, the jet sputtered to life and took off.

"I demand to know where we are going!" shrieked the Soldier. "I'm telling you right now that if we're headed to a communist country, I am not afraid to jump off this plane!"

"We're staying in America, Soldier," Ms. Pauling said in an irked tone. "Don't you guys remember that you're all invited to the Saxxy Awards?" The Heavy looked up and gave her a solemn, knowing look.

"We were not supposed to leave until afternoon tomorrow. Is only Thursday. Why so early?"

"I, well…" Ms. Pauling sighed. "All right, listen up, guys. The Administrator's gone and we're going to find her." She explained as much of the situation as she felt she could without compromising anything truly confidential. The new Pyro—a shaggy-haired, maskless young man only a few years older than the Scout—listened intently.

"Uh, I've got a question," he said in a plain American accent, staring cluelessly at the woman in front of him. "Who's Saxton Hale?"

"It doesn't matter to you right now, so don't worry about it," she said dismissively with a flippant wave of her hand. With that, she took her seat and settled in for the redeye flight, furiously shuffling through maps and files. As she tried desperately to deduce where her boss might have been hiding, most of the men decided it was best to get some sleep. The Demoman silently chugged a bottle of scrumpy while the Medic opened his satchel to see if he could get some work done. As soon as he lifted the flap, however, a small white dove eagerly soared right out of the bag.

"_Archimedes!_" Medic whispered harshly, leaping out of his seat and clumsily flailing for the rogue bird. Ms. Pauling looked up from her work and observed the sight in front of her from above the rim of her glasses with a sigh, exasperatedly meeting eyes with him.

"C_atch the damn dove,_" she hissed.

It was at this point that the Medic felt incredibly ludicrous, gawkily trying to navigate the silent cabin without waking up his teammates. He'd knocked over his bag and swore under his breath, and then swung his hands about in a feeble attempt to capture Archimedes. He'd gotten his pant leg caught on an armrest and almost stumbled to the ground in another grab for the bird. He tripped over the Sniper's extended leg and bumped his knee on a chair, suppressing a pained yell. At one point, the dove landed on his shoulder and quickly flew away, leading the Medic to wildly launch both hands behind his shoulder to no avail.

At the sight of this bizarre spectacle, Ms. Pauling had went from rather annoyed to trying to not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. With a groan, the Demoman woke up in a drunken stupor, bottle still in his hand. He slowly looked upwards to find a tiny white dove perched upon his head and belched.

"Am I seein' things?" he mumbled. Medic gently grabbed Archimedes and gave his teammate a nervous smile.

"Ah, yes, yes, you are just hallucinating. Go back to sleep." With that, the Demo grunted, took another swig of liquor, and passed out.

Five hours later, our mercenaries and their de-facto leader had arrived at the bustling John F. Kennedy Airport. After having been cramped for so long, they stumbled out of the small jet to find a suited man holding a beat-up sign that read, 'BLU'. The group followed him through the airport and piled into a limo that took them to a decent Upper East side hotel. At the reception desk, Ms Pauling was handed five keys to the rooms she'd booked.

"All right, guys," she called to them, holding up four of the keys. "You're all sharing rooms. One room will have to hold three of you." The Demo and Soldier slapped each other on the back while Heavy and Medic nodded at each other.

"Ah, don't worry! I'll share a room with ya, Ms. Pauling," Scout said with a wink, snatching the lone key in her other hand. He was met with a glare.

"Scout," she warned.

"Sorry," he replied sheepishly, handing the key back to her.

"Hey, do y'all wanna share?" Engineer suggested, glancing at the Sniper and Scout.

"Don't see why not," Sniper said nonchalantly.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," Scout said with a roll of his eyes, discouraged at yet another one of his failed advances.

"Guess that leaves us," the new Pyro said with a smile, looking at the new Spy. He nodded.

"Then it's settled," Ms. Pauling said, handing out the room keys. "Follow me."


	20. Boule de Feu

_Chapter Twenty: Boule de Feu_

* * *

><p>Rays of bright amber morning sunlight streamed through the elaborate glass windows, illuminating the walls. The soft, bustling sounds of a Friday morning in New York City reverberated throughout the quiet room, gradually awakening the woman lying on the couch. Pyro's eyelids blearily cracked open, instantly realizing that she hadn't gotten enough sleep. At least she'd found herself a warm, comfortable pillow on which to lie...or so she'd thought. As she tried to adjust her pillow, she realized that what she thought was a nice, firm pillow was actually her teammate's shoulder. Reflexively, she recoiled in shock, sitting bolt upright and registering the fact that they were in such a position.<p>

Wondering how such a thing must've happened, she stood up, stretched, and wandered into the bathroom to clean herself up. When she returned, she found that the Spy had disappeared without a trace. Figuring he'd gone back to his own room to change, she glimpsed at the clock and saw that, at 9AM, she had another hour before her makeover team arrived. She decided to dial Mr. Reddy and cancel the arrangement, as she had other plans in mind for that day.

"Reddy speaking," he answered.

"Hi, yes, it's Ms. O'Brien. I'm just calling to let you know that I won't be needing my makeup crew today."

"Oh. Any particular reason why?"

"I'm giving them a break. Tomorrow's a big day."

"If you say so, Ms. O'Brien. Good day."

"To you too," she said, placing the phone down on the hook. Relieved at the thought of not being fussed over by a hair and makeup team, the Pyro exhaled and daydreamed of her plans for the day. A loud rapping of the door broke her blissful reverie and she answered it groggily, thinking the person knocking was the Spy. However, a TV messenger brushed past her, startling her awake. His jacket flaps flew open and the monitor flickered on, revealing a heavily-cloaked Administrator. Her large and unwieldy handheld camera, dangerously close to her face, shook anxiously.

"I would like to form an alliance. I know—I know you know the truth," she rasped. The Pyro felt her chest tighten.

"What are you talking about?" she said quickly.

"Don't play _dumb_ with me, mercenary. I know you know about…_Gray Mann_," she whispered furiously, looking left and right. "If I knew you two didn't have the smarts to have figured out something like this by now, I never would've hired you. We cannot run from him anymore, we have to take him down."

"All right," she said cautiously. "What do you suggest we do?"

"I suggest we team up against him, corner him. I've got it all figured out. After the awards ceremony, we invite him to the afterparty to discuss a proposition, yes? He says yes and comes with us—to an abandoned warehouse, really. We pull in and propose that, in exchange for Mann Co., I'll give him my Australium reserves. Once he says yes, we kill him."

"And if he says no..?"

"We kill him," she wheezed, bringing the camera even closer to her face. "So what do you say? Are we a team?"

"Ah, yes. Yes, we are. Absolutely. Fantastic."

"_Good_, that is what I like to hear. Thank you. Good luck. Bye," she stuttered, fumbling with the camera and nearly dropping it before actually managing to cut the feed. The screen now black, the TV messenger closed the flaps of his jacket and made his way out the door, bumping into the bewildered Spy in the process

"May I ask what that was about?"

"She went completely nuts and wants to team up with us against Gray Mann. Something about a shitty plan and kidnapping him after the Saxxys."

"Did you agree to it?"

"Of course I did. I had to shut her up somehow. I can't have her interfering with our actual plan."

"Perfect. As long as she's kept under control." A jarring ring of the phone interrupted their conversation. After a quick glance at the Spy, the Pyro hastily answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's the courtesy desk. We have someone who thinks his six-year-old daughter is somewhere in this hotel and is asking that we call every room. Goes by the name of Morty Goldberg?"

"Hold on for a moment," Pyro said, rolling her eyes in embarrassment and putting her hand to the bottom end of the receiver. "_Nadine!_ Wake up, your dad is here!"

"_WHAT?_" Nadine shouted into her pillow, annoyed at the premature interruption of her slumber. The Spy placed his face firmly in the palm of his gloved hand.

"I said, your dad's on the phone!" she shouted back, uncovering her hand. "Hi, yes. She's here and will be on the phone shortly." Nadine yanked the phone out of the Pyro's hand.

"Daddy, what the hell are you doin' here? I can't believe you said I was a six-year-old. How did you find me?"

"Nadine, bubelah! Where've you been for so long? We need you at the store," her father gushed.

"Can't you find someone to cover for me, Daddy? I'm helping my rich friends out with their homework," she pleaded, followed by a long pause before her father responded.

"You not helpin' anyone with homework, sweetie. The local health department's comin' in a few days. D'ya think I'm gonna bring Schlomo in? He couldn't run down the block if ya paid him, let alone run a store. He's got his head in the books all day. Now, come on, honey. Daddy needs you."

"Fine," she huffed dramatically. " Fine. I'll be there in a sec. Yeah, yeah, I love you too. Kisses. Yeah, _mwah_." Nadine put down the phone and began picking up the clothes she'd bought the other day.

"So?" Pyro asked with her hands up. "What did Morty want?"

"I gotta go back to work at the store. Like, now."

"Nadine!"

"It's okay, I've served my purpose," she said, smiling sadly. "I'm right down the street if you ya need me...or Greta."

"Thank you for your service," Spy said reservedly.

"Yeah, really. Thank you for everything. You were outstanding and we couldn't have done it without you," Pyro said sincerely.

"Damn right. I was fabulous. And you're welcome, anytime," she said, tightly embracing the older woman. She also embraced the Spy, at which he rolled his eyes. Holding her sickening amount of shopping bags, Nadine stumbled out the door and into the hallway.

"See? She can carry her own shopping just fine. Why did we have to carry her things for her?" Spy said with annoyed wave of his hand.

"Oh, please," Pyro chuckled, flopping down on the couch. "She's gone for now, so you've got your wish."

"Yes, yes. In any case, where are those makeup artists? Aren't they supposed to be here?"

"Not today, I gave 'em a break. They need one, I need one, my face needs one. What, are you anxious for them to come back or something?" she teased.

"Absolutely not."

"Thanks," she said with a smile. "Anyway, there's some stuff that I need to take care of today. We need to go shopping."

"Shopping?" Spy asked with a twitch, the word tainted to him by Nadine's feral spree. "What is it you need?"

"I just need a few new clothes to wear. And some...weapons," she said with a mischievous smile.

"You're not at all concerned with the prospect of being recognized?"

"Trust me, with the way I'm talkin' now, with the way I look, who's gonna think I'm classy Ms. O'Brien?" she said, pointing to herself. He sighed.

"If you insist."

* * *

><p>The warm, mild sun from the morning transformed into a strong, bright, merciless fireball by the afternoon. Intense beams of hot, cloudless light drew sticky sweat from the crowds of people below; thick humidity made breathing an intense labor for anyone unlucky enough to have been caught outdoors.<p>

The Pyro, happily carrying a bag of her old clothes, was donned in a plain white t-shirt, heavy-duty cargo pants, and combat boots from the nearest Army surplus store. She brushed aside some wisps of hair that'd escaped her messy ponytail and stuck to her red, sweaty face and stepped into a local laundromat that she'd heard years ago was a front for weapon sales—among other things. The Spy entered with her and upon seeing no employees or customers present, instantly knew the purpose of the establishment. Hoping that she wasn't given false information, Pyro led the Spy to the dark, musty back room and knocked on one of the doors.

"Yes?" a hoarse, masculine voice called.

"I'm here for the stuff," Pyro called back. "Heard about it from Schlomo."

"Ah, yeah, Schlomo," the man said as he got up and opened the door. He was a middle-aged, scraggly man, his body and face riddled with tattoos. Behind him was, indeed, an illegal weapon storage. The two mercenaries stepped in and leisurely began browsing his wares. Not quite satisfied with what she saw, the Pyro went up to the man's makeshift counter.

"I'm lookin' for a shotty. I need Mann Co., stock model."

"Hm," he mused, giving her a look. "I don't know if a shotgun is right for you. Maybe a—"

"Answer me," she said sharply, glaring at him. He sneered lopsidedly.

"No, I don't got a stock model. What I do have is this _gorgeous_ green one," he said, bringing out a Reserve Shooter.

"Reserve Shooter, 15% lighter and only four shells per clip? Fuck that," she said in disgust. "Got any Mann Co. flamethrowers?"

"Hah, you like fire, eh?" he asked, in a manner that made the Pyro feel supremely uncomfortable. "Yeah, we've got a gently-used Backburner and a brand new Phlogistinator. Also got a rusty ol' stock burner in the back—"

"Gimme the stock thrower," she said, taking out her wallet. "I also need propane and some sort of, uh, case. For carryin' it around." To her request, he set down two canisters of propane and a sizeable black canvas case.

"That'll be 300 bucks." As the Pyro placed the stack of hundreds down on the counter and picked up her goods, she heard the front doorbells jingle behind her. She also realized that the Spy was nowhere to be found, likely cloaked. Looking through the open doorway, she saw two distinct-looking men approaching and realized that they were the Engineer and the Sniper. Though her first instinct was to panic, she remembered that they had no idea what she looked or sounded like and would be none the wiser.

She nodded to the two men, who nodded back to her and began browsing the store, making small talk with the sketchy owner. Ostensibly, as she pieced together from the conversation, they were regulars and visited every year during the Saxxys.

_Go figure,_ she thought, feeling very odd in such a surreal situation. With her case slung around her shoulder, she left the dark room with haste, walked through the empty laundromat, and kept walking until she turned the corner at the end of the block. The Spy, who followed her silently the entire time, then smoothly and inconspicuously materialized in front of her.

"Do you know what the fuck our team is doing here already?" Pyro asked, thoroughly perturbed.

"I do not. That encounter was alarming and completely too close for comfort," he answered, upset at himself for having had such a large gap in his knowledge.

"You're tellin' me. Shit."

"How about this," Spy said, an idea having just made its way into his head. "I will follow them back to their hotel and spy on them to find out what exactly they are doing here a day before the Saxxys." His partner stopped short and thought about this prospect for a few seconds.

"All right," she said reluctantly. "Spy on them. But don't take too long, okay? And don't you get caught."

"Oh, please. Surely you know by now that I don't ever get caught," he said smugly. "I will meet you back at your room when I am finished, yes?" Pyro nodded. Before she knew it, he'd vaporized into thin air and she was alone in the crowd once again. With a sigh, she decided against hailing a taxi on the off-chance someone recognized her and trudged through the sizzling city streets, wiping the sweat that dripped from her brow.

_Who knows, maybe fuckin' Donald Watson drives a cab and scrambles all over the city, constantly searching for me,_ she pondered, laughing quietly to herself. Within half an hour, however, as she'd approached her building and entered the lobby, she was stopped by none other than Mr. Watson himself.

"Excuse me," he asked, camera at the ready. "Do you happen to know when Ms. Phoebe O'Brien will be coming down today?"

"Fuck if I know who that is, weirdo," Pyro replied, hurriedly walking away from him.

"Of course you don't, you bitch!" he shouted. "She's more of a woman than you'll ever be!"

Though entertained by his statement, the Pyro quickly entered the elevator and rode up to her room, constantly throwing glimpses from over her shoulder for the bona-fide whackjob who happened to choose her alter-ego as his fixation. When safely in her cold, air-conditioned room, she put her things down and sat on the sofa, exhaling with gusto. She turned on the television and watched a game show while waiting for the Spy to reappear.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, the youngest member of the BLU team was trying (yet again) in vain to seduce the youngest member of the "purple" team.<p>

"Ms. Pauling," the Scout said cockily, his hands spread out. "Let me go with ya. It's dangerous to go alone, ya know."

"Scout, I'll be fine," Ms. Pauling replied sternly, brushing past the Scout and leaving her room to pick up the newly flown-in RED team from the airport.

"Yeah, but come on! Don't you need someone to drive ya? I do have my license, y'know."

"Taking a cab," she said, walking towards the elevator.

"What if you get kidnapped, huh?" he shouted, following her down the hallway.

"Not going to get kidnapped," she called back, stepping into the elevator and pushing the button.

"C'mon, what about—"

"Goodbye, Scout." With that, the stainless steel doors of the elevator smoothly closed right in the Scout's face.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, trudging back to his room. Little did he know that the Spy was right behind him, eavesdropping. Scout entered his room and sat down in front of the window, gazing down at the street and moping as the apple of his eye was driven away in a taxi.

"What's got you down, there?" the Engineer asked, stepping out of the bathroom.

"Nah, nothin'. Just rejected by Ms. Pauling."

"Again?" He confusedly scratched his bald head.

"_Again_." With his chin in one hand, Scout tapped his fingers on the windowsill and peered out of the window, taking in the view of the city.

"You know somethin'?" Engineer chuckled, starting to brew coffee with the small coffee machine provided by the hotel. "I was dead tired this mornin' and wasn't really listenin' as good as I should've been when Ms. Pauling elaborated on why exactly she brought us out here so early."

"Yeah, somethin' about tryin' to find the Voice," Scout mumbled, flicking his hands below his chin to symbolize the Administrator's ubiquitous vocal presence. "Apparently, she ran away from some guy, who I guess ended up bein' the same guy who made us fight those giant, crazy robots awhile back. Do you remember that?"

"Clear as today."

"Yeah. Then she went on about how she had to find her to execute some kinda revenge plan. Well, uh, at least I think so. Don't quote me on that one, Engie. I wasn't payin' total attention to what she was sayin'. I do know that she looked real pretty while talkin', though. What a babe," he murmured, lost in infatuated thought. "Don'tcha agree?"

"Well, Scout, she's young enough to be my daughter," Engineer said with a smile. "Wouldn't ever look at her that way."

"Good. Better chance for me."

As their conversation segued into completely different topics, the invisible Spy in the corner of the room decided that the information he'd collected would have to suffice and discreetly left through the open door. He disguised as a businessman, stepped into the late afternoon sunlight, (which was only slightly more forgiving than earlier), and hailed a taxi back to the Waldorf-Astoria. In the lobby, however, he was met with one of the many banes of his existence.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Donald Watson called out to a passing woman. "Do you know when Ms. Phoebe O'Brien will be coming out?"

"Wow, she's staying in this hotel?" the woman asked in slight surprise. "I wish I knew, but I don't. Sorry." She continued on her way and left Donald searching around frantically for anyone who looked like they might know of the Pyro's whereabouts. Much to the Spy's chagrin, he singled him out.

"Sir, sir! Yes, you!" The Spy irately stopped in his tracks and turned to face the taller man.

"What is it you want?"

"Do you have any idea when Ms. Phoebe O'Brien will be coming out of her hotel room?" he asked eagerly. Spy was about to say no, he had no clue, when a much better idea struck him.

"I do, in fact," he whispered, motioning for Donald to come closer. "I am friendly with her limousine driver, and according to him, she left some time ago."

"What? That's impossible! I-I've been standing here for almost four hours," he said, clearly distraught. This fact did nothing to help the Spy's impression of him—in fact, it drove him to throw Donald for even more of a loop.

"Perhaps she left before you came, then. I was told she left in the morning for the Bronx."

"The Bronx? What on Earth would she be doing in the Bronx?" Donald inquired suspiciously.

"She is there at a school, P.S.…21, I believe," he said, making up a number on the spot. "Helping small, special-needs children learn. She really is quite a gem, isn't she?"

"You've got that right. You're sure she's there?" Donald stared intently at the Spy, who then nodded convincingly in affirmation. "Then I'll be there, as well."

As Donald promptly left the hotel to catch a cab to the Bronx, the Spy smirked to himself and made his way up to the Pyro's room. He knocked on the door, and upon hearing no response, cleared his throat audibly and knocked again slightly louder. This time, he heard frantic shuffling and the door opened to reveal a disheveled Pyro.

"What'd you find?" she asked, smoothing her wild hair and taking a seat on the couch.

"I—were you sleeping?"

"No," she yelped. At this, he gave her a look and she relented. "_Ahem_. Maybe."

"I do apologize for rousing you," he said as he sat next to her and lit up another cigarette. "I found that Ms. Pauling had arrived early in an attempt to track down the Administrator. She flew in with the BLU team early this morning and is picking up the RED team from an airport as we speak."

"Which airport?"

"Nobody mentioned anything about it. I can only hope that nothing happens to tamper with our plans."

"I know. But if it does, I'm sure we can just work around it."

"You make it sound so easy. As if we're driving and simply taking a detour."

"Well, we're a team, aren't we? That's basically what we're doing. I mean, yeah, I'm scared as shit. I'm not _exactly_ sure of what the Administrator and Ms. Pauling are planning. And I'm not entirely sure of what Gray Mann's capable of. But we've got a solid plan, right? We're smart. We're capable. I'm sure everything will turn out all right. Don't you agree?"

The Spy took a long drag from his cigarette and put his arm around the Pyro.

"I do. You are correct," he said, exhaling smoke. "How about this? To celebrate these past two weeks, we go out to dinner. Just you and I. Away from everything else."

"Where would you want to go?"

"I know a rather low-key restaurant," he assured her. "You are not the only one familiar with this city."

"You're on, _monsieur_."

"Then it's settled. I'll be back at 8," he said, standing and making his way back to his own room. When he shut the door behind him, the Pyro stood up and walked over to the bathroom mirror, looking at her sweaty reflection in disgust.

"Great. Guess it's time to see if I can put whatever little beauty knowledge I have to the test," she muttered to herself, doffing her clothes and stepping into the shower. As a woman who was used to showering quickly and efficiently, she finished in a few minutes, wrapped herself in a towel, and headed over to her room to pick out an appropriate outfit for the outing.

"Hm, not that one, I wore it to the press conference," she grumbled as she tossed aside a solid blue dress. "Ooh, here's a floral-print dress I haven't worn yet. Flowers happen in the summer, right? Or was it spring? Ah, good enough."

After several minutes of trying on different shoes and accessories, she settled on a simple watch and necklace paired with flat shoes. She considered a perfume and settled on Estée, a floral-scented bottle. _Might as well try to have a theme—I think that's what I'm supposed to do,_ she thought to herself as she began putting on her makeup. Lacking the trust in her own ability to do anything near what her makeup artists did, she remembered what she could and applied a very light layer of basic makeup.

"Uh...huh. Shit. Is this brush for powder or cream?" she thought aloud, holding a fluffy brush in one hand and a flat brush in the other. "Fuck it, I'll just use the fluffy one." Pyro applied her foundation, very carefully applied eyeliner and mascara, and slowly added a light layer of lipstick, which resulted in a casual, natural look. The mercenary stood tall in front of the mirror, extremely proud of herself for utilizing her newfound knowledge of feminine grooming in order to look "presentable".

However, one glaring problem had still presented its ugly self to her: her hair. She was never one to fret about her hair; it was always hidden and never anything she cared about even when visible. So, while she could figure out basic makeup, she still didn't know what to do to her mane short of brushing it. How did those cosmeticians make it look so smooth and shiny? Pyro saw her hair as a nightmare, cursed with tight curls and coarse, frizzy waves. She wallowed so much in her displeasure that she almost hadn't heard the knocking at the door.

The kinky-haired woman shuffled over with her hand gripping her hair and nervously opened it, revealing the Spy with his arm resting on the doorframe. He looked like he'd stepped out of a GQ spread—a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the first couple of buttons undone, gold aviators hooked onto his front shirt pocket, khakis, and dress shoes.

"Wow, look at you," Pyro said, frustrated at herself for blushing.

"Speak for yourself," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Why do you have your hand on your hair like that?"

"'Cause it looks like shit, that's why."

"It looks wonderful as it is, chérie."

"That is a goddamn lie."

"Is it?"

"You can't possibly tell me that you prefer this bird's nest over the pure magic that was flowin' out of my scalp."

"Well, what if I said that I did?"

"You'd be a goddamn liar."

"Not quite. Is it such a crime to appreciate natural curls?" They took one step closer to each other and lightly pressed their bodies together, the Spy noticing the difference in the Pyro's height without heels. He placed his hand behind her head, brought her face closer and kissed her softly. The two lingeringly broke apart and the Spy leaned closer to the Pyro's ear.

"Do not do a thing to your hair," he breathed huskily.

"I…yeah. Fine. I won't," she replied dazedly. "But only 'cause the humidity would fuck it up."

"Even better."

* * *

><p>The couple walked in a comfortable silence to a quiet and high-class French bistro nearby. The warm temperature had cooled down a bit in the evening, and the sun had begun setting on the horizon. Because the weather was considerably more tolerable, the pair was seated outdoors.<p>

"This whole thing is in French," she whispered, picking up the menu. "The hell is '_maquereau au vin blanc'_?"

"Mackerel with white wine. Would you prefer if I read the menu items to you?"

"No, no, I'll manage," she replied, scanning through her menu for a minute. "Wait, wait, wait, sorry, what's _coq au_-"

"Allow me." He read off the menu items in English for the Pyro, who finally decided on a quiche when the waiter arrived. As for the Spy, he'd (once again) decided on the escargot.

"You and your snails," Pyro snorted.

"What can I say?" Spy said with a shrug. "I like my snails."

"May I interest either of you in a glass of wine?" inquired the waiter.

"You know what, sure. We'll do wine," she said, flipping through the wine menu. "How's your Pinot Gris?"

"Excellent, madame. And for you, sir?"

"Your finest Pinot Noir_, s'il vous plaît_."

"Wonderful, I'll be back shortly," said the waiter. A minute later, the pair received what would be the first of multiple alcoholic beverages. After a few glasses of fine wine, a couple of light entrées, and dessert, the conversation became focused on parts of the mercenaries' lives pre-BLU.

"You know something," the Spy began, gesticulating with the glass of wine in his hand. "I was once an excellent fencer. A master of _épée_. I even wanted to be a professional at one point, but you can see how that panned out."

"Just lay your weapons down and _walk away_," Pyro said, chortling and imitating one of the Spy's taunts.

"Oh, please. Says the woman who plays air guitar in celebration of a brutal murder?"

"That's me," she said with a smirk, taking another swig of her third glass of wine. As she put down the empty glass, she noticed the sunset's deep orange reflection in it and looked up above. Bold swirls of gold, peach, and crimson clouds filled the sky, shadowed by dark shades of violet and indigo.

"Quite a sight," Spy remarked, following the Pyro's gaze.

"Now _that. That_ is what I call good sunset. That is a good, wonderful sunset. _Quality_ fuckin' sunset, right there," Pyro declared, pointing an unsteady index finger at the sky. Her partner quirked an eyebrow in mild amusement at her statement.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm good and, uh, right," she said with a nod, giving the "A-OK" hand sign. "Are you right?" Spy suppressed a laugh and, with mild difficulty, rose from his seat.

"I am feeling a bit _courageous_ again, but otherwise yes. Quite all right," he said, memories of the previous week returning to him. He left a wad of cash on the table and held his hand out to help the Pyro up.

"No, no, no. I can get up myself," she said, gently swatting the Spy's hand away. "I always get up myself. Got myself out of the womb." With a much greater level of difficulty due to the greater amount of alcohol she'd consumed, the Pyro placed her hands on the table and stood, swaying slightly.

The duo began strolling down the block, the sun fully set and the light-polluted night sky taking its place. Pyro, who had never been anywhere near drunk before, noticed that she felt quite different, almost uncontainably euphoric. It took more effort to keep her balance, to keep from blurting things out, to say things correctly. Not being in as much control of her emotions, actions, or speech felt disorientingly foreign to her.

"Is this what it's like, bein' tispy?" she asked, glancing at the Spy.

"Pardon?"

"Tip—tipsy," she enunciated, mildly ashamed of her verbal mishap. Suddenly feeling off-kilter, she reflexively grabbed the Spy's arm to steady herself.

"By the looks of it, most certainly."

"Whoops, guess I goofed," she spluttered out in a fit of laughter. "That was you last week."

"Yes, well, I had half the amount you had tonight. I am not making the same mistake." They linked arms and continued walking unsteadily to the hotel, eventually reaching it half an hour later. Upon entrance to Pyro's room, a wave of warmth hit them like a brick wall as they instantly realized that the air conditioning in the room hadn't been working. Spy picked up the phone and dialed the from desk as Pyro clumsily fell onto the sofa and moaned loudly.

"It's so _hot_. It's like ten, why's it still so fuckin' hot?"

"At least it has cooled down considerably since this afternoon. Hello, yes, Room 972 speaking."

"So? Still too hot out. For nighttime. In August."

"Yes, our air-conditioning unit is—ah, routine maintenance. I see. It will be on again in a few hours? Excellent, thank you."

"A few hours?" Pyro cried, throwing her hands in the air. "That's a load'a bullshit!"

"If you insist on complaining about the heat, then may I make a suggestion?"

"Yeah. Shoot."

"This hotel has a pool that is currently closed. How would you like to sneak in and go for a swim?" Spy asked. Pyro looked at him as though he had six eyes.

"Uh, no thanks," she quickly dismissed, wiping the sweat that began to accumulate on her skin due to the hot stuffiness of the room. "I, um, don't really like water."

"You do not _like_ water? Care to elaborate?"

"I'm a Pyro! I'm fire, water kills fire, I avoid water, everything's good. Water is no good for me."

"But you shower."

"That's different, just so I get clean. I'm never submerged."

"So I suppose you are going to sit here and sweat until they turn the air conditioning back on?" Pyro tapped her chin in mock thought.

"Yes," she said bluntly.

"Well, suit yourself then, chérie. I will be going by myself," he said, on his way out the door.

"Wait!" Pyro yelled, swinging her arm. "I'll go...if you can do me a solid."

"Go on."

"I...okay. The real reason I don't wanna go is, well, I've never been in a pool in my life. I don't even know how to swim. You think maybe you can try to teach me how?"

"You are an adult woman who does not know how to swim? Goodness—"

"I already told ya, I'm a Pyro! I do fire, why would I ever need to swim?"

"Well, then. It's necessary you learn, should you ever land yourself in such a predicament in which you need to swim. I shall take it upon myself to be your instructor."

"You shall!" Spy smiled at his slightly impaired companion.

"This will be most interesting. Come with me."

* * *

><p>Minutes later, our two favorite mercenaries stood in the Spy's hotel room, said occupant digging out something from a drawer while the Pyro watched.<p>

"Hey, we're in your room for once," she quipped, taking in the sight of his near-identical suite. He brought out three women's bathing suits.

"Here are all the—"

"Whoa whoa, I'm not wearin' those," Pyro objected, waving her hand at the bunched-up swimsuits. "Why the hell do you have women's swimsuits on hand, anyway?"

"For disguise purposes, you see.

"_Bullshit_."

"Not so. I have to be prepared for anything. At any rate, I only have three, so choose wisely."

"Oh, you're _only_ carryin' three women's swimsuits at any given time. Tragic," she snickered. In her partner's hands were a modest blue bikini, a black string bikini, and a white one-piece suit.

"Your choice."

"Uh...none of 'em. I'd rather go naked," she mumbled, realizing that she didn't like the look of any of them.

"You really would?" Spy blurted without thinking. He instantly realized what he'd said and made a face at himself, shocked at what had just come out of his mouth.

"Excuse me?" Pyro howled with laughter, hands on her hips. Had she heard him right or were her ears betraying her? This was new and unfamiliar grounds they were treading.

"Erm—"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," she chuckled, poking his chest cheekily and feeling an unfamiliar warmth coursing throughout her body.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," he said coolly. "Wouldn't you like to know?" _Oh Antoine, you animal. For shame._

"Perhaps not, huh? Fine," she said, grabbing the white one-piece—what she'd thought to have been the lesser of three evils. "I won't be giving you any shows, anyway."

"If you say so," he said, grabbing his swimsuit. He led her out of the room and down the hallway to a set of double doors, which he then found were locked. He reached into his pocket, produced a couple of lock picks, and got to work attempting to pick the lock on the door. Ten minutes later, however, he realized that his skills had corroded beyond immediate repair. He frustratedly remembered that he was so used to cracking electronic briefcases and the like that he'd nearly forgotten how to pick regular door locks.

"Jeez, what's taking you so long?"

"I haven't had to pick a door lock in years," he snapped, dropping one of the picks on the ground. "_Putain de merde!_"

"And you yell at me for havin' a filthy mouth," Pyro said, picking up the tool and handing it to the Spy.

"You do not even know what I said."

"Didn't sound pretty."

He grunted, fixated on picking the lock. Another five minutes later, he shoved the instruments back in his pocket, stepped back, and simply kicked in the door in one fell swoop. Pyro stood next to him in awed silence, looking around to see if anyone had heard or seen what the Spy had just done. He took her hand, led her inside, and closed the door behind him.

"Hm, yes. Well, that was very stealthy and sneaky of you, very Spy-like—"

"Oh hush, you. We are in now, aren't we?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, sketchily glancing at the illuminated, unnaturally bright blue water as she shuffled past it. The pool itself was a sight to see—not Olympic-sized, but sizeable and tempting in its own respect. The area was dimly-lit and the walls held a few large windows that gave a rather decent view of the city.

"I'm going to go change," Spy announced, heading to the locker room and leaving the Pyro alone. She stared wide-eyed at the still, glass-like water for several minutes and it stared back at her, daring her to jump in. She felt a little more sober but her apprehension of the water felt intensified; she felt self-conscious about the fact that she couldn't swim, not to mention the fact that her instructor was the Spy, of all people.

She heard the door open and looked up to see the Spy emerge from the locker room in navy square-cut swim trunks, still masked. He looked up to see her glued to the exact same spot.

"Aren't you going to put it on?" he asked, motioning towards the white swimsuit in her grip. She stared right into his eyes and willingly fought not to look at his body.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll put it on."

"If you really don't want to, you don't have to…"

"Nope, I can do it," she said, walking towards the women's locker room. She quickly doffed her clothes and snapped on the white one-piece. It wasn't so bad, she decided; at least not nearly as bad as the other ones probably were. But going out there in front of someone she liked and respected very much in such a revealing outfit felt completely out of the question. The stretchy Lycra material clung to her every curve, muscle, and crevice, showcasing the scars and burns that decorated her toned, thick body. In the nearby mirror stood a strong, accomplished woman who felt like a bashful teenager.

After a period of time that felt like hours but was really only a couple of minutes, the anxious Pyro mentally blocked all the thoughts in her head, flung the door open, and headed towards the pool. Spy, who'd been swimming laps while waiting for her, stopped to watch her as she slowly and deliberately descended the steps into the pool.

"You look fetching," he assured her, standing up. Pyro gazed at his glistening form, water dripping from his body. He was not terribly brawny, but possessed a masculine, hirsute, reasonably-muscled figure.

"Thank you," she said, carefully wading through the shallow water. "You know, those itty-bitty shorts 'a yours don't leave much to the imagination."

"Well, it is what we wear in France. Do you object to my wearing them?" Spy asked coyly.

"Um...not really," she muttered, her cheeks turning a shade of scarlet. "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be teachin' me how to swim?

"Yes, yes. Here, allow me. I may not be able to teach you everything in one night, but if I teach you one thing, it will be the most rudimentary technique: floating." Pyro stood still in the water and stared at him, not sure of how to begin. "Allow me."

"Allow you to what?" Spy extended his hands towards her, hoping she'd allow him to show her by touching her. "Oh, yeah. Sure." Despite the fact that she was made nervous from both the water and the Spy, Pyro allowed him to place his hand on her back and the other on her stomach as she gently lowered herself into the water.

"Now spread your arms out," he instructed, still holding onto her back. Tentatively, she extended her arms and breathed deeply. He then began to gradually let go; though she looked alarmed, she tried to stay calm and managed to stay afloat.

"Am I really floating, or is this all a dream?" she asked dryly, stealing looks at the her teammate's body.

"You are indeed floating. Is it so hard to believe?"

"Well, would you have ever thought of a Pyro voluntarily learning how to swim? We don't belong near water" she said, slightly relaxing her tense muscles. "Especially this one."

"But you are a rather fast learner." He stood next to her, studying her relaxed figure suspended in the water and realizing that while she thought she'd picked the more modest swimsuit, it actually stuck to her skin so tightly that it was almost see-through.

_Je suis très chanceux._

"You know, this ain't so bad," the floating woman remarked. "I'm actually startin' to feel kinda chilly."

"Have you had enough?"

"Yeah, I think so," she said, slowly rising from the water and leaving the pool. At this point, it was extremely difficult for the Spy to pry his eyes away from his companion's full figure and the sheer bathing suit that clung to it for dear life. Before any noticeable trouble began to brew downstairs, he got up and offered to get her a towel.

"It's okay," she called after him. "I can get my own."

"Too late," he replied, taking a giant towel and wrapping her in it.

"Thanks." Pyro huddled inside the large towel and dried herself off, then headed into the locker room to retrieve her clothes while the Spy did the same. They left the pool area and headed back to their respective rooms.

"You mean you're not gonna sleep in my room again tonight?" Pyro asked, cracking a grin.

"I won't...unless you'd prefer to have me."

"What do _you_ think?"

"That you would prefer to have me?"

"Bingo."

"So be it. I will be there soon," he said, entering his room. In meantime, Pyro got out of her damp, clingy swimsuit and into drier, far more comfortable clothes when she heard a knock on the door. She opened it to the Spy standing there in a new change of clothes, holding a lone briefcase.

"You're packed already?" she asked in surprise.

"I figured that I might as well pack, seeing as it is our final night here," he said. "Aren't you going to?"

"Eh, maybe. I wouldn't wanna be recognized as Phoebe O'Brien in any of those dresses," she said, heading towards her bedroom.

"Speaking of which, tomorrow is your last day as Ms. O'Brien."

"Yeah, and good riddance," she said, climbing into her king-sized bed and sitting up. "Bein' feminine is a new, interesting experience...but bein' Phoebs is boring as shit. My favorite hobbies are _'shopping, golfing, and cooking'_. Whoop-de-fuckin'-doo, most banal shit ever. I'd shoot myself if I ever became her," she laughed.

"Believe me, I am glad you aren't," said the Spy, followed by a lengthy pause. "Well, I guess if you're going to go to bed now, I'll be in the living area—"

"Wait, no. I mean, I'm not gonna make you sleep on the couch. I have all this room here..."

"Is this an offer for me to share a bed with you?"

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, who knows?" Pyro said with a shrug.

"Well, I accept your offer."

"I can't believe I'm doing this...but get in," she said, reaching over and patting the other side of the bed. If she'd gone back in time to a few weeks ago and told herself that she would soon be willingly inviting a man into her bed, her past self would've set her pants on fire.

"It is still awfully early. Hardly midnight," Spy remarked, shutting off the light and slipping into the spot next to the Pyro. Without the warm yellow glow from the lamp, the room was illuminated by white-blue light from the waxing moon and surrounding city lights.

"Yeah, early for us. But I'm so beat," she yawned, cuddling into her pillows and closing her eyes. A few moments passed before the Spy heard a quiet, "Goodnight, Snail."

"Goodnight, _ma boule de feu_."

* * *

><p>as per request, the spoy sez® translations in order of dialogue: "fucking hell", "i'm a lucky man", and "my fireball"<p> 


	21. The Saxxy Awards, Pt I

note: these are based off of the 2011 saxxy categories when you had to make replays and submit them. i began this story in 2011 and the categories from that year make more sense anyway so there ya go

* * *

><p><em>Chapter Twenty-One: The Saxxy Awards, Pt. I<em>

* * *

><p>The pink and gold light of the next morning's sunrise filtered through the sheer curtains, illuminating the backs of the Pyro's eyelids. She slowly cracked her eyes open and groggily realized that there was something limply hooked around her waist. Turning her head slightly, she glanced and saw that it was her companions arm, the owner of which was now also awake and much closer to her than when they'd went to sleep.<p>

Not a word was said as they met eyes and simply laid there cozily for a time, studying each other as the sun grew more prominent in the sky. At one point, the Pyro reached over and ran her hand along her partner's masked face, going so far as to lift it back slightly. The Spy placed his hand on hers—a new sensation for her, as this was the first time their hands met sans the cloth barrier of leather gloves. She stopped and withdrew her hand.

"The time is not right," he said.

"I'll have you know," she replied in a quiet, pragmatic tone, "that if something really does happen tonight, I'll never have seen your face." Another silence passed, this one uncomfortable and tense as the Pyro held solid eye contact with the man lying closely next to her. After a painstaking deliberation, the Spy finally exhaled and slowly removed his stretchy, cobalt mask. Though it seemed as though his mask hadn't hidden much in the first place, seeing his entire head and face still surprised her. She reached over and gently ran a hand through his hair—short, dark, and peppered with gray at the temples.

"Thank you." Now she had an even better reason to stare; despite a few hidden scars, he was easily far more handsome and less intimidating maskless. Though within minutes, the Pyro had involuntarily closed her eyes and fallen back asleep. As he gazed upon the woman's sleeping form, the Spy contemplated his decisions. The decision he'd just made, the decisions he'd been making the past half-month. Had he made the correct choice in allowing her so close to him, so quickly? In a little over two weeks' time, they'd gone from professional colleagues to...what, exactly? What were they?

Whatever they were, they were first and foremost a team. With a mission. Tonight. "What they were" was a question that was to be thought about after they'd gotten out of the mess they were in. With that, Spy pushed those nagging thoughts out of his head, donned his mask, and went back to sleep—but not before tightly wrapping his arm around the Pyro's waist.

* * *

><p><em><strong>RAP RAP RAP<strong>_

The now fully-dressed Spy and Pyro, who stood near the coffee maker with cups of coffee, headed to the door to see Saxton Hale behind it, waving. Spy opened the door with his hand on his hip.

"May I help you?"

"DON'TCHA KNOW, WE'VE GOT THE REHEARSAL AT THE THEATER!"

"It is only 11:30. I was under the impression that we were not to rehearse until two."

"CHANGE OF PLANS, WE PUSHED IT BACK," Saxton announced proudly.

"In that case, let me get my suit on," the Pyro said, retrieving her blue fireproof suit from the other room and slipping into it. Mask in hand and weapon slung around her shoulder, she returned with a smile on your face.

"What are you so happy about?" Spy asked.

"I miss this suit," she said, beaming. "Feels great to be back in it."

"LEAVE THAT THING IN THE LIMO FOR TONIGHT," Saxton said, gesturing towards her large black case. "I'LL GET SOMEONE TO TAKE YOUR SUITCASES LATER, AS WELL." The trio left the room and made their way downstairs to the limo.

"Saxton, make sure I've got access to this suit tonight," Pyro said, climbing inside. "Leave it in the women's bathroom stall and mark it 'out of order'."

"WILL DO, LASS," Saxton replied, leaning past the divider towards his driver. "BROADWAY THEATRE, 1681 BROADWAY, PLEASE!"

The ride was taken in what was mostly silence with bits of plan-related conversation here and there. It was determined that after she and the Spy would be announced as winners for Best Kill Assist (the final category), she would take her mask off and they would begin relaying the truth about TF Industries in lieu of an acceptance speech. No matter what the reaction was from Gray Mann or the Administrator, they would handle whatever came their way afterwards.

Unfortunately, traffic was heavy that day; what should have been less than a ten-minute trip took thirty minutes due to gridlock.

"We should've just walked," Pyro groused as the limo pulled up to the theater at last. She noticed both the RED and BLU mercenaries milling about outside and slipped the familiar black rubber mask over her head, nodding to the two men with her. They stepped out, drawing attention from the BLUs and some passerby.

"ALRIGHT, EVERYONE INSIDE!" Saxton boomed, pointing both index fingers towards the doors. As everyone filed into the theater, they met with Ms. Pauling, who began organizing them into their seats. The Pyro and Spy were about to head to their seats when they heard a faint hissing behind them.

"_Psst! Get over here!_" The mask-clad partners looked at each other and then towards the source of the sound: the Administrator, crouched behind a seat. "You are both aware of the course of action for tonight, yes? Everything will go off without a hitch?"

"Absolutely," answered the Spy. Pyro gave a nod in affirmation, much to the satisfaction of the Administrator.

"You understand that you are to enter tonight as Phoebe and accept your reward as the Pyro, correct? You have a plan for that worked out?"

"Huddah."

"Excellent. Splendid. Good luck to both of you," she cackled. The two went and sat in their appropriate seats with their team, across the theater from the REDs. The whole show ran a little bit under two hours, not counting the pre-show from the red carpet nor the inserted television commercial breaks. Besides the occasional technical mishap involving lights or sound, the rehearsal went rather smoothly.

"AND NOW, FOR THE AWARD FOR BEST KILL ASSIST! THE NOMINEES ARE AS FOLLOWS: THE RED SOLDIER AND RED SNIPER!" The theater dimmed and the projector screen lit up with a clip of the RED Soldier blasting the BLU Demoman into the air, followed by a finishing arrow to the head by the RED Sniper. An audible, maniacal chuckle from the RED Soldier resounded throughout the auditorium.

"THE BLU SCOUT AND DEMOMAN!" The clip faded into another, showing the BLU Scout shooting the RED Engineer with his Force-A-Nature, knocking him into the BLU Demoman's sticky trap and blowing him to smithereens.

"Aw yeah, that was sweet."

"PIPE DOWN!" Saxton bellowed at the general direction of the BLU Scout. "AND, LAST BUT NOT LEAST, THE BLU SPY AND BLU PYRO!" The clip began with the Pyro juggling the screaming RED Scout in the air with her airblasts, finally hurling him across the room backwards into the Spy's knife.

"WITH THAT, I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THAT THE WINNERS OF THE AWARD FOR BEST TAUNT KILL ARE…" Saxton's large fingers fumbled with the small, flimsy envelope as a loud drum beat played. "THE BLU SPY AND BLU PYROOOO!"

The two made their way to the stage to grand orchestral music and the meager applause of no more than thirty audience members. Once onstage, the Spy raised the microphone to improvise a short and sweet acceptance speech.

"We are quite honored to receive this award tonight," he began. "I'd like to dedicate this Saxxy to the careless, jumpy little rabbit who wasn't looking behind him." The small audience began laughing, save for the rather brooding RED Scout who sat pouted with his arms crossed.

"THAT CONCLUDES THE CEREMONY FOR THE FIFTH ANNUAL SAXXY AWARDS, THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT!" Saxton said, waving and walking off the stage. The house lights came up and Ms. Pauling quickly made her way down the aisle and onto the stage, clipboard in hand and pen behind her ear.

"Alright, everyone, listen up! Great rehearsal, congratulations to each of you. I've got all your tuxes backstage. Come and get them, single file, please."

Everyone shuffled onstage to receive their tuxedo, Pyro included. She remembered wearing padding under her tuxes in years past along with her mask and gloves, keeping her male guise. Her first Saxxy Awards with a dress...and perhaps her last. Her train of thought was interrupted by the Heavy, who'd tapped her on the shoulder.

"Pyro! Spy! Is good to see teammates again!" he cried, looking at her and the Spy.

"Yeah, I dunnae know wot happened to both'a ye, but s'good to have ye back!" the Demoman chided, chasing his welcome with a swig of scrumpy.

"Huddah, huddah huh!" replied Pyro with a thumbs-up. The Engineer noticed what was going on and joined them.

"Howdy! Good to see you again, folks!" Soon, all the BLUs had gathered around, holding their tuxedos and socializing with their newly-reunited teammates. Their impromptu reunion was abruptly interrupted by an overworked Ms. Pauling.

"Excuse me, guys! I'm going to need you all ready and in the limo by 5:30 tonight and on the carpet by six sharp!" she declared, pointing at people with her pen. The BLU Scout nervously wandered up to her, seeing a prime opening in which to work his magic.

"Uh, hi. So, Ms. Pauling, what are you gonna, uh, what are you wearin' on this—tonight?" he spluttered. The busy woman pulled her glasses down a bit and gave him a businesslike stare.

"A dress," she deadpanned.

"Oh. Yeah, of course, a dress. Wicked," Scout said. He spent the next five minutes awkwardly standing near Ms. Pauling with his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching her cross things off her checklist and hand out tuxedos. Through the throngs of men trying on parts of their outfits, the BLU Heavy emerged and cleared his throat.

"About these...it seems as though I have tiny baby shoes." In the Heavy's monstrous hands sat two size three shoes. Ms. Pauling stopped what she was doing and slapped her forehead in frustration.

"Ugh. Give me a minute, Heavy, I'll get it sorted out." She then handed the RED Scout his tuxedo, who grabbed it and approached her. Thanks to the RED Spy's crash course on seduction, he certain that he would far exceed his BLU counterpart's attempts at wooing her.

"Ahem. Good afternoon, Ms. Pauling," he greeted in a low, stilted manner that was a poor emulation of the RED Spy's suave voice. "If I might ask, wit whom are you goin' to attend the Saxxy's wit?"

"Me, myself, and I," she said, whipping out her blocky cellphone and dialing a number to make yet another call. "Yes, Pauling speaking. I have with me a pair of black patent leather wingtips, size three? Yeah. Yeah, no, I ordered a men's size _thirteen_, not three..."

"Ms. Pauling, how would you like to have a strong, young, handsome specimen with you as a date tonight?"

"Ah, all right. Excellent, so I'll send someone to pick up the shoes by 4:30. Terrific, thank you," she said. Both Scouts met eyes and narrowed them in fierce competition.

"Ah...Ms. Pauling?" the RED Scout prodded.

"Oh, sorry about that. Well, you see, as tempting as that sounds, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to take a raincheck on that one for tonight. Sorry." At this, the BLU Scout gave a smug look to his RED counterpart.

"If you don't wanna go with this chump over here, how about goin' wit me?" the BLU Scout said proudly, sticking his thumb to his chest. "You got nothin' to lose, and everything to gain!" Ms. Pauling sighed exasperatedly.

"I'm busy right now, as you can see. I'll have to get back to you on that." She looked up and noticed that the RED Soldier had ripped his too-small tuxedo jacket and tie trying to force them on. "By the way, make sure you add a style 127QB tux jacket, size…Soldier, what size was that jacket?"

"MEDIUM, MA'AM!" he shouted, standing proudly at attention, the shoulders of the jacket ripped at the seams.

"Extra-large, make that an extra-large. Let the shoulders out a bit. Yes, please, with the shoes. And don't forget the bowtie in ruby satin. Thanks, I'll call if I need anything else," she said, hanging up the phone and walking away. The BLU Scout stuck his tongue out at the RED one, who sulked.

"'Least I got a 'we'll discuss this later'. A 'raincheck', now that's a no."

"Ah, go screw yourself," the RED Scout whined, waving his hand and walking away. He bumped into the BLU Spy and glared at him too; the Spy simply smirked at him and approached the Pyro.

"Someone seems rather bitter," he said, the Pyro nodding in agreement. Suddenly, they spotted Saxton Hale motioning for them from across the theater at the exit. Amid the commotion, they snuck offstage and towards the exit to find a limo waiting to take them back to the hotel.

* * *

><p>"<em>Christ!<em> Who used the kabuki brush for _liquid_ foundation?"

"Uh. Who knows…" Pyro trailed off, looking away. _Oops._

"Did you do this?"

"Uh, I plead the fifth."

"Oh, Ms. O'Brien," the makeup artist sighed, shaking her head. "At least you're trying."

"Yeah, it counts for something," she replied, hands folded in her lap. As her heavy, dramatic makeup was applied, another stylist unwound the pin curls from her hair and began wrapping it into a large, voluminous bun. The Spy stood in front of the full-length mirror nearby and adjusted his navy-colored bowtie, noticing the clock behind him.

"It is already nearly six, aren't you ready yet?"

"Hey, it's only 5:15. Don't rush art," the hairdresser bit back sassily, pointing his finger at the Spy. "Besides, she can afford to be fashionably late if the need arises."

"Don't worry, I'm almost ready. Go wait downstairs in the lobby, I'll meet you there," Pyro assured. Spy gave her an unsure look, but ultimately obliged and left. Her hair and makeup were soon finished, and she slipped into the modest black gown provided. Some perfume, jewelry, and other finishing touches later, and she was ready.

"Breathtaking," the hairdresser whispered, barely-contained pride overflowing in his words. "Now are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be. Thanks for everything, you guys," she said, a smile on her made-up face. They wished her luck in return as she finally left the room and headed downstairs for the last time, taking in the ornate details as she rode down the elevator. The doors opened to reveal only a few photographers, and she was slightly surprised (and internally glad) to find that Donald Watson was not amongst them.

Pyro sauntered across the lobby and stood at the top of the front stairs to see the Spy, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette, speaking with Saxton Hale. With her gloved hand gripped around railing, she carefully descended the stairs with the hem of her black silk gown trailing behind her.

Nothing short of amazed, the Spy gave himself permission to discreetly ogle the woman in front of him, and vice versa. Saxton took her hand in his and kissed it for the sake of the photographers, drawing a slew of flashes and cheers before the small entourage entered the limo.

"You look absolutely beautiful, if I do say so myself," the Spy murmured, taking her hand in his. The Pyro smiled widely, feeling a blush creep upon her cheeks.

"Thank you. It's a shame that I'm going to have to ruin it," she snickered.

"YEAH, YEAH. NOW LET'S GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD, YOU TWO LOVEBIRDS!" Saxton hollered in excitement. The limo pulled up near the front of the theatre, where the red carpet was set up and barricaded off. Pyro, the first to step out, was inundated by bright, white flashes and roars of the paparazzi. She and Saxton gave short interviews on the red carpet and posed for pictures, both together and separately. In the meantime, the Spy had clandestinely escaped and stayed invisible while waiting for the other mercenaries to show up. Said mercenaries were on their way to the event in two separate limos; RED arrived first and BLU shortly afterwards.

"Oh, how I wish I was anywhere but here," grumbled the BLU Medic as he hoisted himself out of the limousine.

"Does Doktor not enjoy Saxxy award ceremony?" asked the Heavy.

"It is vapid and boring," the Medic said, pushing up glasses and adjusting his black jacket. "I would prefer being in my lab, experimenting. Doing something more productive and worthwhile with my time."

"Ah, c'mon, Doc! Lookatchu, you're pale as a sheet'a paper!" the Scout taunted, slapping the Medic on the shoulder and startling him. "For God's sake, get out in the sun a bit, see the light'a day! Do somethin' that isn't cuttin' shit open! Go for a run!"

"For your information—" he began to retort angrily, then stopping suddenly. He heard an oddly familiar female voice speaking.

"Oh, it's great to be here. The Saxxy Awards are always a favorite of mine," the Pyro said to an interviewer.

"Hey, whats goin on, Doc? You lookin' at Sax's girlfriend, huh. Ya think she's _haaaaaht_?" Scout teased, nodding his head at the Pyro. "I mean she's okay, but she ain't no Ms. P—"

"_Shhhhhh!_ I recognize her voice. I do not know why, but it sounds so very familiar to me."

"She is on TV very much lately," the Heavy observed. "Perhaps you hear her from TV or maybe radio in background while you work."

_"What happens in the operatin' room, stays in the operatin' room, eh?"_

"No. No, that is not it."

_"Not a word about this leaves this infirmary. We good?"_

"Definitely not it..."

_"Good. Then we have an understandin', Doc."_

"Oh," he muttered as it hit him that the formally dressed-up woman in front of him was the same dirty, jaded fighter he'd cut open some time ago. "Mein Gott."

"Wat? C'mon, tell me!" Scout pleaded.

"O-Oh, I simply realized that I once saw her in a television show."

"But you never watch tele—"

"Look, it's Ms. Pauling!" Medic yelped, pointing to the dark-haired woman in the long, velvet, plum-colored gown.

"_Oooooh, mama._ Damn right it is. Seeya later, fellas!" Scout said, blindly following the recipient of his infatuation down the red carpet. Heavy, upon seeing the conflicted look on his comrade's face, leaned in closer.

"What is really wrong, Doktor?" Medic looked up and met Heavy's eyes, sighing.

"Saxton Hale's lady friend, over there...you are going to think I've gone absolutely crazy. She is actually Herr Pyro."

"She is Pyro? How you are sure of this?" he asked skeptically, putting a sizeable finger to his strong chin.

"I've personally operated on her, I've heard her speak. She is speaking in a higher pitch now, but her voice remains remarkably distinctive."

"Hm, is interesting. So this is what lies beneath little Pyro's mask?"

"I am sure of it," Medic answered with a nod. "I suppose this is why she and the Spy were temporarily replaced."

"Hel-lo," Pyro lilted, making her way over to her two teammates and shaking their hands. "I just want to wish good luck to both of you during the awards!"

"To you as well, _Fräulein_," said the Medic pointedly, maintaining an intense eye contact. She withdrew her hand and stepped closer to him, smiling.

"Don't you _dare_ open your mouth."

"Don't worry yourself. I wouldn't dream of it."

"Thank you. Believe me, you're both in for a treat tonight. Anyway, good luck, Medic, Heavy," she said with a nod to both of them. She rejoined Saxton and soon entered the auditorium with him.

"I wonder what does Pyro mean by 'treat'?" mused the Heavy.

"I wish I knew, mein freund. It seems as though I do not know much of what is going on anymore."

* * *

><p>The red carpet time was over and most of the massive audience was seated, abuzz with excitement for the night's show. As soon as the television cameras went live, Saxton Hale made his way to the stage and gave an opening speech. When he finished, he announced the winners of two categories before the show cut to commercial. In this time, the Pyro rose from her seat and made her way to the women's bathroom in the lobby—which, to her chagrin, was precluded by an obscenely long line of women.<p>

"Ah, please, it's an emergency!" she cried, rushing past the crowd and through the door.

"Hey, just 'cus you're Phoebe O'Brien don't mean you can do that!" a woman yelled.

"It's an emergency, thank you!" she yelled back, forcing herself through the door and past the "Out of Order" stall that was wrapped with yellow caution tape. Pyro breathed a sigh of relief as she found her mask, boots, gloves, and suit neatly in a sack. She quickly changed, removing her gown, gloves, heels, and jewelry in favor of her familiar fire proximity suit and slung the sack of her old clothes over her shoulder. When she stepped out, she noticed through her tinted goggles the looks of shock from the other women in the bathroom, which she deflected with an uncomfortable but friendly wave. Back in the theater, Pyro sat down in her actual assigned seat in between the Soldier and the Demoman.

"Ey, lad, where were ye? Ya missed me win me Saxxy for 'Most Epic Fail'!" the Demoman mumbled, drunkenly holding up the foot-high Australium statue. The Pyro shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

"Where is your tux?" Soldier hissed, grabbing a portion of the Pyro's suit. _Shit_, she thought. _I forgot to wear the tux I got. Whatever, not like it'll matter in an hour._

The rest of the awards went quite smoothly. "Most Extreme Stunt" went to the RED Pyro for deflecting a rocket at his feet and flying across the sky. "Best Mid-Air Murder" went to the RED Spy for an airstab. Acceptance speeches, monologues, and jokes were sprinkled throughout. Despite the air-conditioned theater, Pyro felt increasingly hot, sweaty, and nervous as the final category approached. Her throat felt dry no matter how many times she swallowed, and she began squeezing her armrests so hard she was afraid she'd break them.

But no matter how this was going to go, she was ready.

"AND NOW, WHAT WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITIN' FOR! THE AWARD FOR BEST KILL ASSIST!"

_Fuck. Okay, here we go. Get your shit together._

"THE NOMINEES ARE AS FOLLOWS: THE RED SOLDIER AND THE RED SNIPER!" Applause filled the theater as the lights dimmed and the projector screen lit up once again, showcasing the gory death of the BLU Demoman and eliciting a groan from him.

"THE BLU SCOUT AND DEMOMAN!" _Another bloody death, more butterflies that won't stop flying around in my fuckin' GI tract._

"AND, LAST BUT NOT LEAST! THE BLU SPY AND BLU PYRO!" _Airblast, airblast, airblast, slam. Right into the knife, done-zo._

"WITH THAT, I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THAT THE WINNERS OF THE AWARD FOR BEST TAUNT KILL ARE…" Saxton announced, fumbling with the envelope once again. Pyro's heart beat in time with the drums, now at the edge of her seat waiting to get up.

"THE BLU SPY AND BLU PYROOO! CONGRATULATIONS!" Muffled rapturous applause and cheers from the entire auditorium coupled with music filled the Pyro's masked ears as she hurriedly stood from her seat and made her way to the stage with the Spy, who held several files in his hand. Onstage they stood in front of thousands of people and millions at home watching on their small television screens, anxiously awaiting their acceptance speeches. The applause eventually died down to allow them to speak, but they were met with dead silence. Spy adjusted the microphone and opened his folder, prepared to spill the secrets of the world to its inhabitants.


	22. The Saxxy Awards, Pt II

_Chapter Twenty-Two: The Saxxy Awards, Pt. II_

* * *

><p>"<em>Ahem<em>. To all of America: I do apologize for not having a clever, humorous speech prepared. However, I find that the information that I am about to impart unto all of you will more than make up for it," the Spy announced, opening up one of the folders. "To all of you who believe that these clips are theatrical—they are most certainly real."

"Boss, boss, holy shit!" a young broadcast operator cried from inside the television broadcast control panel. The broadcast staff, alarmed by the sudden deviation in programming, was frantic over what was occurring right in front of their eyes. "Do I cut?"

"Yes, you buffoon! Immedia—,"

"DON'T YOU DARE!" Saxton boomed, bursting into the cramped booth. "STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. YOU LEAVE THAT ON UNTIL I SAY YOU CAN CUT!"

"Yes sir!" the excitable operator answered, glued to the screen in front of him.

_"Every single one of us was hurt and killed in these short movies. Why, might you ask? And how are we still alive? I am here to tell you..."_

Nadine smiled proudly to herself as she swept the floor behind the counter, listening to the Spy's voice from her radio tuned to the Saxxy Awards. Though she wished she could've been there to watch the show go down in person, she was content watching (listening, rather) from the sidelines. Besides, she'd figured she wouldn't be anything but a liability.

The doorbells then jingled as a worn, beaten man shuffled in. Nadine looked up from the floor and saw that it was the same man who'd snapped a picture of them last week: Donald Watson. What was he doing in her store?

"You got any Band-Aids?" he asked gruffly.

"Oh, yeah, right ova there by the aspirin," she said, pointing to one of the small aisles across the store. "Can't miss it. Are you okay, sir?"

"Dandy, perfect, couldn't be better."

"What happened?" she called to him as he picked up a box of bandages.

"Some bastard told me that the love of my life was in the pits of the Bronx. Real funny gag, right? Yeah, hilarious until she's not even there. Hilarious until you get mugged and beaten for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He really got me, didn't he?" Donald muttered, slamming the box on the counter.

"Gee, I'm so sorry to hear that," Nadine replied, scanning his purchase. He stared directly at her face, sure that he recognized her from somewhere recently.

"I can't put my finger on where, but I feel like you look quite familiar to me. Have we met?"

_"...And so, you should all realize that this sort of thing is occurring. Pyro, would you like to add anything?"_

"I don't believe we have—"

"Wait, shut up for a second," Donald said, turning up the volume on the radio. "Is that Phoebe O'Brien I hear?"

"Is it?" Nadine asked flatly. Back at the theater, the Pyro had taken her mask off onstage, exposing herself and receiving gasps and shocked silence in return. She lowered the microphone a bit and began speaking.

_"Yes, you heard me right, people, Phoebe O'Brien is the BLU Pyro. That's me. And yes, Spy, there are plenty of things that I would like to add. If you could pull up the slides I prepared on the screen…"_

"YOU HEARD THE WOMAN," Saxton cried as he grabbed the operator by the shoulder, jostled him, then handed him a small film reel. "PUT IT IN!"

"A-are you sure? This—"

"GODDAMN IT, DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A KANGAROO'S ASS? I GAVE YOU AN ORDER, YOU MONGREL, NOW_** TAKE IT**_!"

"Right away, right away, sir!" the operator answered, quickly loading the reel into the projector and lowering the projector screen onstage.

"All the news stations are covering this as breaking news now! What the hell is goin' on?" the operator's boss exclaimed incredulously.

"BLOODY HISTORY, THAT'S WOT!" Saxton said proudly, beating his chest. "THAT LITTLE GRAY RAT WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS." Right in front of him, two mercenaries spilled every dirty little secret of TF Industries. Every lobby, bribery, monopoly, and illicit activity was unearthed in front of the nation, much to the Administrator's seething anger. To make matters worse, they outed Gray Mann and told of his plot to take over Mann. Co, entailing all of the things he'd done and had planned to do. The audience gasped in horror, looking at the small, antagonized man seated in the front. Suddenly, he burst out of his seat and ran towards the back of the auditorium in an attempt to escape. The Administrator jumped out of her seat as well and tore after him, shouting numerous imperceptible things at him.

"Ooh, sorry, ladies and gents! We're gonna have to get back to you on this," said the Pyro. Both mercenaries sprinted across the theater in record time, following them outside as Saxton Hale emerged from the booth and accompanied them into the waiting limousine.

"WHICH CAR ARE THEY DRIVING?" he asked, scrambling into the car.

"The silver Chrysler limousine," said the driver, stomping on the gas pedal and propelling the vehicle forward.

"BOTH OF THEM ARE IN THERE?"

"Both, I saw 'em myself."

"WELL, DON'T LET 'EM GET AWAY! FOLLOW THAT CAR!" Saxton shouted, pointing forward dramatically. The limo raced through the illuminated, late-night Manhattan streets as Saxton's driver expertly weaved through traffic, running red lights and avoiding obstacles. Unfortunately, Gray Mann was getting away—and fast.

"HEY, GIMME ONE OF YOUR GUNS!" Saxton said to the Spy.

"What? Why would I—"

"NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS MATE, LET ME HAVE AT IT!" Hesitantly, the Spy took out his stock revolver and handed it to Saxton, who hastily popped out of the open sunroof and began shooting at the silver car in front of them.

"He's heading into Long Island City," the Pyro observed calmly as she began taking her flamethrower out of her bag. "We're crossing the Queensboro now, see?"

"That we are," the driver said, deeply focused on the car in front of him. The traffic gods were in their favor that night, for the bridge was sparsely populated. As they crossed into Queens, Saxton Hale finally landed a bullet in one of the car's tires, causing it to swerve wildly across the highway.

"Damn it! They're shooting at us, step on it!" cried the Administrator.

"I am, you insufferable harpy!" Gray barked, trying to regain control of the car.

"I told you to go to 45th and Vernon, where are you going?" she shot back.

"I'm getting there, will you shut your mouth?" Suddenly, another bullet sliced through the rear window, whizzed past the ears of both Gray Mann and the Administrator, and shattered the windshield.

"YEAH, ALMOST GOT 'EM!" Saxton screamed as the high-speed wind whipped his face and took his hat with it. They began to slow down as the car in front of them did as well, eventually pulling up to an abandoned warehouse in a quiet, poorly-lit area. The passengers of the silver car clambered out of the vehicle and into the spacious, run-down building while the trio got out of their car and cautiously followed them inside the warehouse. Pyro lit the flame of her flamethrower, faintly illuminating the interior and revealing the faces Gray Mann and the Administrator standing at the top of the suspended catwalk. The brilliant industrial lights came on all at once, blinding the three at the bottom.

"So you all thought you could outsmart me?" the Administrator asked with a sneer. "I'm hurt. Really, deeply hurt. Betraying the close and personal friendship that we all shared...hm. Well, it's no matter. It's time for you to suffer the consequences."

"You're the one who wanted us to kill Gray Mann," Pyro snapped, glancing about her surroundings. She spotted a number of large boxes, loaded pallets, and antiquated machinery and wondered what they had in store.

"Yes, well, I've had a change of heart. I feel as though Gray and I could come to a solution, a compromise. We both have things the other wants, we ought to barter. Besides, _h__e_ hasn't thrown me under the bus on national television."

"HELEN, HE STOLE MANN CO. RIGHT FROM UNDER MY NOSE!"

"Is it really _my_ fault that you had such an idiotic policy?" Gray asked condescendingly, peering over the railing. "Besides, I never stole a thing. My daughter won your company fair and square." Saxton grimaced and his fists tightened so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"YOU'RE A SORRY BLOODY EXCUSE FOR A MAN, YOU KNOW THAT? YOU'RE NOTHIN' BUT A NO-GOOD, ROTTEN OL' CUNT!"

"Oh, fine. Believe what you'd like, pea-brain. If you want Mann Co. back so badly, then put your money where your mouth is." With that, Gray removed a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button, prompting thirty robot Scouts to swarm the building. In a split second, the three separated and began fighting them. Saxton ran towards a hoard of Scouts, punching them, crunching them, and throwing them to the ground. The Spy swiftly sapped, shot, and stabbed them, leaving them limp and short-circuited. The smell of hot metal filled the air as Pyro lit each one on fire. In minutes, piles of dead robot Scouts littered the floor.

"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?" Saxton bellowed, dusting his hands off.

"Do you take me for an idiot, Hale? Far from it!" Gray called back. The Administrator cackled and Gray Mann pressed another button, releasing Soldier, Sniper, and Scout robots. Pyro fought furiously, engulfing anything that moved in her merciless embers. Rockets that flew her way were reflexively shot back with her airblast. This caused the building considerable damage; the rockets sometimes smashed through the windows or blasted through the roof instead of hitting the Soldiers. Dusty rubble, broken glass, and debris began falling from the walls and ceiling, making the fight even more difficult.

_Of all the times to forget my fuckin' mask in the car! _The Pyro roasted another Soldier robot from behind, suppressing another cough. The Spy was busy fighting his way through the robots when he noticed the laser sight from a robot Sniper in front of him. In that moment, it abruptly hit him there was no respawning. If any of them were headshot, backstabbed, or blown up, that was it. No revival in ten seconds…or ever. He could've only hoped that none of his teammates were too careless.

The entry-level robots were running out and being replaced with bigger ones by the minute. A monstrous Heavy lumbered in and began raining lead on everything in its sight, and unfortunately caught Saxton in its crossfire.

"YOU _SON OF A BITCH!_" he roared, clutching his left bicep to keep blood from leaking from his ugly wound.

"That I am," Gray said, savoring the sight below him. Another press of a button led Pyros into the building, spraying their equally merciless flames. The Pyro was thankful for this because she was running out of ammunition; she circle-strafed them faster than they could react and snatched up their propane tanks. Burned, wounded, and beaten, the gang trudged on and tactically plowed through the robotic monstrosities that came at them with the intent to kill.

It was at a certain point that both Gray and the Administrator realized that the robots were not cutting it against the seasoned fighters. Gray pressed the button on his remote that released the final wave of robots as they dashed downstairs in an attempt to escape. Large Scouts, Soldiers, and Demomen emerged, blowing the place to pieces.

"Guys, get out of here!" Pyro shouted over the ear-shattering noise, hidden behind a giant wall. The two men looked at her incredulously as she waved them out.

"Absolutely not!" yelled the Spy, who rarely raised his voice. "I am not leaving you alone here!"

"WHAT'RE YOU, NUTS?" Saxton hollered.

"Yes, I am! But I know what I'm doing, just get the fuck out!" Her allies reluctantly absconded and the Pyro was left to face the countless robots that ran towards her. With a shuddering sigh and a racing heart, she unclipped a napalm grenade from her bandolier and removed the ring. She tossed it and, in seconds, sprinted outside as fast as her legs could possibly take her, barely escaping the fireball of an explosion that she left in her wake. The sheer force of the blast was so powerful that it knocked the Pyro forward all the way across the street; when she got up, she noticed that the building next door to the warehouse was in shambles as well. Transfixed by the blaze in front of her glazed eyes, the Pyro almost hadn't heard the voices that came from above and behind her. She knew exactly whose they were. Without thinking, she entered the building and hurriedly climbed the stairs and catwalks that led to the roof entrance.

Hunched over, she flung the door open and was met with a horrific sight—Saxton Hale knelt on the ground, covered with several bloody gunshot wounds that pierced his behemoth and seemingly immortal body. He looked up at her with pained, ashamed eyes, silently apologizing for his failure. The worn Spy had his hands up in the air as Gray Mann's semiautomatic machine gun and the Administrator's revolver remained pointed at him. His pierced side was covered in blood, and he too looked at her in apologetic embarrassment.

"What a surprise," the Administrator said through clenched teeth. "We all thought you were dead."

"No," Pyro spat, desperately trying to catch her breath. "I'm not fuckin' dead. But I know two people who are on their goddamn way."

"Oh, really?" Gray asked, pointing his gun at the Pyro, who in turn gripped her flamethrower tightly. "We'll see about that." In the same exact moment his finger moved to press the trigger, the Pyro slammed her hand around the airblast handle of her weapon, sending both tycoons flying over the side of the building. Two stray bullets from Gray's machine gun that flew through the air hit her both in the chest and in the shoulder, knocking her backwards in a hot, searing eruption of pain that spread throughout her torso. She dropped her flamethrower to the ground with a loud clatter and began to collapse, which prompted the Spy to run over to her catch her before helping her up. Saxton unsteadily got up and hobbled over to them as loud sirens echoed in the quiet night.

The three thoroughly battered fighters slowly climbed down the stairs and into the street, welcomed by the sight of the Administrator and Gray Mann's corpses in the alleyway. The Spy, who was the least hurt, staggered over to them with his revolver in his grip. He found that the mangled Gray Mann was certainly dead, but the Administrator wasn't quite.

"You'll pay for this," she rasped.

"Not as much as you will," he growled, aiming his gun at her. "_Au diable avec vous, putain._" With the final shot left in the revolver's chamber, the Spy shot her in the chest, leaving her to die a slow, painful death. He made his way back to his teammates and found that ambulances had arrived and were starting to take them away. The cessation of his body's production of adrenaline finally allowed him the realization of just how much blood he'd lost from his wound. Dark spots peppered his vision as he weakly stabilized himself against the wall, sinking to the ground in a pool of his own blood. Blurry figures running toward him and flashing lights filled his dim view as he finally faded into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Sterile, white lights flooded the Pyro's vision as she, with a tremendous amount of effort, languidly opened them. As she inched closer towards consciousness, memories of the battle came flooding back to her, along with pain. Pain in her throat, shoulder, chest, and mind—what had happened to her teammates? Panic flooded through her system until she looked and saw the bandaged, unmasked Spy sitting closely next to her in a hospital gown, his arm hooked up to an IV.<p>

"Are you all right? How are you feeling?" the Spy asked calmly, trying to hide his elation in seeing the Pyro awaken at last.

"Pain. I'm feelin' a world of pain," she whispered, her voice hoarse due to the breathing tube that had once been inserted in her esophagus. "How long have I been out?"

"Three days. You had a punctured lung, two broken ribs, and a shoulder injury—among other things."

"What about you?"

"Internal bleeding, heavy blood loss from a gunshot wound in my side. I know that I had to receive a blood transplant. I do not quite remember what else happened to me."

"Is Saxton okay?"

"He will be fine. Riddled with bullets and still alive, but he was the closest of any of us to death. Stable, now."

"Thank goodness," Pyro sighed. The two looked at each other for a long time, taking in the other's appearance and simply appreciative of the fact that they were both alive.

"They're both dead?" she asked.

"Most certainly. Gray Mann was dead when I found him, and I shot the Administrator before I left her to die. Alone, and in a dark alleyway."

"Good, good," Pyro said, a weak smile gracing her bruised face. "I told ya we'd do it."

"Yes, you did. Though I nearly thought you were dead."

"Huh? Why—oh, 'cause I blew up that building. Well, I'm a Pyro. You'd think I'd know how to set something on fire without killin' myself."

"I had feared the worst," he admitted. "But I want to thank you. If you hadn't arrived, they would've surely killed us."

"Don't mention it."

"I will. If I had used my cloak, they would've sprayed bullets everywhere in an attempt to hit me. I wasn't armed enough and there was little I could do. I was in a very difficult position...you saved our lives."

"Ah, what the hell. Yeah, you're right, I saved your asses," she said, snickering quietly. Another comfortable silence settled in as the two gazed at each other in calm, content gratification, their hands intertwined. Pyro noticed that she still felt a strong wave of joy wash over her when they held hands, in that moment especially.

"How are _you_ feeling?" she asked.

"Better. Much better now that you are awake," he said.

"What, do you care about me or something?" she teased, squeezing his hand.

"Perhaps," he said with a smirk. He leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips. The Pyro smiled, another rush of intense warmth flowing through her veins.

"Hey, uh, I just want you to know…_shut a door_," she said softly.

"You'd like me to shut the door?"

"No, no…_shut a door_."

"_A_ door?"

"God! No, you know, in French. _Shut a door!_"

"...Do you mean _je t'adore_?" he asked, a sly grin involuntarily spreading across his face as he tried not to laugh.

"Yeah, that._ Je t'adore._"

"So it is that you adore me, just as a colleague?"

"Uh," she said, a slight blush creeping onto her face. "Not exactly. Did I use it wrong?"

"Friends say _je t'adore _to each other. But if you adore me as more than a colleague, you would say, _'je t'aime'_. That would obviously be if you were very fond of me in a passionate and romantic manner."

"I see. Well, uh…yeah. Sure. _Je t'aime_," she squeaked, squeezing her eyes shut as her face turned red. Still never quite the one for gushy romantic confessions.

"_Je t'aime aussi, ma chérie,_" he replied. He held her hand tightly, capturing the surreal moment in his mind as one that he would never forget.


	23. Epilogue

_Chapter Twenty-Three: Epilogue_

* * *

><p><span><em>Monday, November 10th, 1975<em>

A cool, quiet wind whistled through the arid, sun-baked badlands as the evening New Mexico sunset filtered through the pink clouds that streaked the violet sky. A supplies-filled cart on rusty train tracks stalled for a bit and began moving backwards, its metal wheels squealing against the rails. A young, omniscient-sounding female voice echoed throughout the barren land, narrating the events that unfolded before her eyes.

"Push the cart, BLUs, hurry! The RED team has the lead, the RED...and they've _won_! Disgraceful, BLUs, how embarrassing. And congratulations, excellent job REDs!" Ms. Pauling turned off her powerful microphone and sighed. Though she wholeheartedly enjoyed her job, lately, she found the duties of being the Administrator rather exhausting. How had her former boss done it for so long?

After the big reveal and assassinations that occurred on August 19th, 1972, Ms. Pauling found that the mercenaries no longer had a real reason to fight each other. But things never looked pretty when they weren't employed; many of them ended up with nothing else to do, or in jail, or responsible for the death of Tom Jones. Nothing good ever came of unemployed mercenaries, so Ms. Pauling had taken it upon herself to hold TF Industries together by keeping them on the payroll. Nearly everyone stayed on their teams and fought to transport items or capture points simply for the sake of fighting.

The BLU Spy and BLU Pyro, however, were granted ten million dollars each in severance per Helen's posthumous request (before she'd been murdered by them) and had gone on to live their own lives. Their teammates regretted seeing them leave, but their positions were more appropriately filled and no complaints had been heard since. Ms. Pauling was still rather bitter towards them, considering they'd turned the entire world onto their shenanigans and murdered her mentor. TF Industries had nowhere near the control nor power that it once held. However, Ms. Pauling still embraced her self-promotion wholeheartedly and was glad that she'd been given such an opportunity. Her job, however, had kept her from having any semblance of a life outside of it—social, romantic, or otherwise—for which she was a bit wistful. Her reverie was abruptly cut short when she heard a knock at the door.

"Uh, Ms. Pauling? Are ya busy?" The recognizably nervous tinge to the BLU Scout's voice betrayed itself. She, admittedly, liked him better than the RED one—they were both loud and cocky, but the BLU Scout seemed somewhat more caring, more genuinely interested in her. Though she'd repeatedly turned them both down over the years, she decided to take a chance and opened the door to the young man anxiously clutching his black baseball cap.

"Yes, Scout?" Ms. Pauling asked, letting him inside the cramped console room.

"Oh! I was just wonderin', ah, I know you're a really busy and important lady, 'specially nowadays, and I know that you wouldn't really wanna be seen with schlub like me, I understand that, I just wanted to know if there's any hope at all that I might possibly one day, maybe, I dunno, get to take you out somewhere, that—"

"Scout."

"That would be really nice, and somethin' I've been wantin' for a long time, but I dunno if you'd want that ever, I'm just askin' cus—"

"_Scout_."

"Cus, y'know, I don't want you to feel annoyed by all my pesterin' or whatever, and if you really, really just want me to shut up for good, y'know, uh, I can do that, I can—"

"_Patrick_!"

"Huh?" he asked, startled at sound of his own first name.

"Listen to me."

"Loud and clear, Ms. Pauling."

"Now, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. I, uh, I know I've turned you down a lot, but I want you to know that you're really not so bad. So, I'm giving you one shot. One. Get yourself together and woo me, here. This is your chance. Meet me here at 8, and don't blow it," she said, gathering a stack of folders from the small desk in front of her.

"I'm sorry, I'll never ask you ag—huh? What'd you just say?"

"I thought you said you were listening loud and clear," she chided, walking past him and opening the door to let him out.

"I-I-I was! Swear I thought I was, I was just so damn sure you was gonna say no! Holy shit, I hit the _jackpot_! Boo-yah!" he cheered, speeding out the door and down the stairs in a triumphant dash back to the BLU base. Ms. Pauling smiled as she watched the BLU blur run towards the horizon. Perhaps this would lead to something more.

* * *

><p>"NO WAY, NOT GONNA HAPPEN. FOR THE LAST BLOODY TIME, WE DON'T SHIP TO HIPPIES. GET A HAIRCUT AND <em>THEN<em> CALL ME BACK!" Saxton barked, slamming the handset of his telephone down on its dock. The hulking man, now the CEO of both TF Industries and Mann Co., took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Damn hippies.

"Sir, can I get you a glass of scotch?" Mr. Bidwell asked, glass and bottle in hand.

"THAT WOULD BE WONDERFUL, THANK YOU," Saxton said, plunking his hat back on his head with a sigh as Mr. Reddy walked into the office holding a spreadsheet.

"Sir, both RED and BLU have received their ammunition shipments this afternoon."

"EXCELLENT."

"I also headed a call from Olivia Mann just now. She is in hysterics...says the company is rightfully hers and is threatening to take you to court over it."

"AND WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER?"

"Nothing. We've since changed your fistfight policy to prevent any other small girls from taking over Mann Co., but I wanted you to handle the call. She's on hold right now." Saxton Hale picked up the phone, eagerly awaiting the exchange.

"HALE HIMSELF SPEAKING!"

"_Saxton Hale, I've had it about up to here with you!_" a small girl's voice piped loudly, forcing Saxton to move the handset away from his ear.

"I ASSURE YOU, LITTLE GIRL, I'VE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE ON ABOUT!"

"Oh, I know you have an idea! You've changed your fine print, you killed my father—"

"WELL, NOT QUITE, YOU SEE. I WASN'T THE ONE WHO KILLED YOUR DROWNED RAT-LOOKIN' FATHER. THAT WAS A FRIEND OF MINE. BESIDES, YOUR FATHER PUMPED ME FULL O' LEAD BECAUSE HE GOT IT IN HIS MIND THAT HE WAS ABLE TO KILL THE GREAT SAXTON HALE! WHAT A JOKE!"

"Even worse! Cough up the company, you _bastard!_ I won it fair and square!"

"HOW OLD ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU KNOW THESE BAD WORDS?" he guffawed. "GO BACK TO WATCHIN' THE TELLY AND PLAYIN' WITH YOUR TOYS, LITTLE ONE. I'LL EVEN SEND YOU A SAXTON HALE ACTION FIGURE, FREE OF CHARGE. THAT'S RIGHT, YOUR VERY OWN SAXTION FIGURE, COMPLETELY FREE. THANK YOU AGAIN FOR CALLING THE OFFICE OF SAXTON HALE!" With that, he hung up and slammed the phone on the dock again with raucous laughter.

"Excellent handling, sir," Mr. Reddy remarked.

"EXCELLENT, INDEED," Saxton said, thoughtfully stroking his moustache. "HM. BLOCK THAT NUMBER FOR ME, WILL YOU?"

"Right away, sir. Right away." The phone rang once again and Saxton picked it up with gusto, still heated over the last two calls he'd received.

"HALE SPEAKING, SELLIN' PRODUCTS AND GETTIN' INTO FIGHTS!"

"Sax? Is that you?"

"_MAGS?_" he asked incredulously, in utter disbelief that his sweetheart from their youthful, panther-punching days was on the other end. "IS THAT _YOU?_"

"It's me, all right. I was just wondering what you've been up to nowadays."

"OH, BOY, YOU DUNNO THE HALF OF IT!" he said, hoisting his beefy legs up onto his desk and twirling the phone cord around his fingers. He began detailing his escapades to her, blissfully reliving his more adventurous days.

* * *

><p>"Sweetie! Another sandwich, please. This one was absolutely marvelous, as usual."<p>

"Why thank you, Don. You do know how I pride myself in my abilities," Barbara said with a smile, cradling her slightly swollen stomach on her way to the kitchen. She and Donald had already had two children together, but they were very excited to welcome a new little addition to the perfect family.

"Would you like mayonnaise, dear?" she asked, poking her head out of the kitchen.

"Just a touch, sugar cake," he replied absentmindedly, flipping a page of the newspaper in his hands. His son and daughter sat in front of him on the carpeted floor, parked right in front of the television set. Barbara brushed a lock of straightened hair out of her face and longingly looked out the kitchen window into the frosty autumn night, reminiscing upon the life she'd led years ago. She was such a brash, rough woman then, but she'd since blossomed into a truly proper lady. And she was happy. Happy with her house, husband, and children. Happy with her decisions. There was nothing wrong with knowing her place in the house and taking her husband's lead.

Things hadn't worked out as well as she'd hoped with the Spy. Despite their utterly remarkable spark and chemistry, they were different...far too different. He'd had trouble committing to their relationship, she'd had trouble trusting him. They constantly argued until one day they'd had enough; they'd simply broken it off and never spoke to the other again. Donald Watson saw his chance and soon showed up in her life again, picking up the broken pieces; they fell in love and married shortly afterwards. His dream came true as he held his wife's hand at the altar on that blessed day.

"Dee-earrr! _Sandwich!_" Donald called, snapping her out of her daydream.

"Oh, yes, right away!" Barbara quickly finished preparing the sandwich and removed her apron, fluffing up her long skirt. She dutifully brought the plated sandwich out to him.

"Thank you, darling," he said, patting the space next to him. Barbara took her seat to watch TV with her family, but once again her thoughts wandered. Though she enjoyed being a loyal housewife, she pondered what would have become of her had she stayed with that handsome rogue. Sure, they'd had their differences, but perhaps they could've worked them out.

_I wonder what would it be like if I stayed with Antoine,_ she wondered.

_Huh?_

_Oh, wait. Silly fuckin' me._

_Of course I did._

Barbara groggily opened her eyes as the ring of the doorbell resounded throughout her spacious mansion. That stupid nightmare had plagued her again, most likely because of those old 50s sitcoms she'd watched late at night. She looked to her right and noticed that her husband, far more of a morning person than she, had already risen from their sizable bed and gone to his study. She slid out of bed, put her bathrobe on, and she headed down the grand staircase and towards the double front doors. A peek through the glass revealed a curly-haired woman rapping on the glass.

"Hiiiii, how're ya doin'?" Nadine cried, bursting through the door and letting in a gust of the brisk air of the East Hamptons. She suddenly threw her arms around the older woman.

"Uh, fine," Barbara yawned, rubbing her tired eyes and closing the door. "Didja get a canary up your ass or somethin'? Why so peppy?"

"Someone isn't a morning person!" Nadine huffed.

"You never were either, I dunno what happened to you," Barbara muttered, leading Nadine into the living room and seating her on one of the plush sofas before taking a seat next to her.

"I've changed. I've bloomed. I've become a woman," Nadine said brightly, batting her eyelashes.

"Yeah, and I'm still just a little girl who hasn't had her Bat Mitzvah yet," Barbara said, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, how're _you_ doin'?"

"I'm fantastic!"

"You're fantastic, huh?"

"Definitely!"

"Then what the hell are ya doin' in my house at eight in the goddamn morning?"

"Well, ya mom keeps askin' me about when you guys are gonna start spittin' out kids, ya know."

"She does, huh? Spittin' out kids. What does she think I am, a spring chicken? I'm gettin' old, here. I dunno if I can still even have 'em."

"Well, you're young enough," Nadine assured, patting Barbara's knee. "No sense in not tryin'. I need more babies to hold."

"Yeah, well, we'll see," she said, entertaining the thought of producing minions of her own.

"Great, perfect. Well, the reason why I'm here is...I've got another question for ya."

"Shoot."

"Can I bring Schlomo ova tomorrow? He wants to see ya new place."

"...Sure."

"Thanks. Can I bring my dad, too? He wants to—"

"Sure."

"Tight. So can I bring my uncle Jeremiah, too? Oh, and your parents wanna drop by, you know the deal. Ya sister wants to come too, and she wants to bring her boyfriend. And how about—"

"You know what, Nay? Fuck it, just bring the whole giant conglomerate family that's half of Rego Park. Why not."

"Whoa, wait, you'd do that?"

"Look at this place. Do you think we don't have the room?"

"BARB! Oh my God, this is gonna be awesome!" Nadine screeched, clapping her hands together giddily. A door opened nearby and a man in a waistcoat stepped out from his study. He made his way over to the source of the commotion and observed the sight in front of him.

"May I ask what is going on here?" asked Antoine with a drag of his cigarette.

"Nadine wants to invite both of our families here tomorrow," Barbara answered, trying to suppress her laughter.

"Both of your families...here...all at once?" he said, lowering his reading glasses skeptically. "Are you two trying to set the stage for some sort of wacky, slapstick comedy movie? Because you are off to an awfully good start."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun!" Nadine pleaded.

"I am not so certain about 'fun'."

"You've barely seen most of them since the wedding! Don't you wanna subject yourself to another round of cheek-pinching?" asked Barbara with a snicker. Antoine shuddered at the very thought.

"Absolutely not. I'd like my cheeks to remain intact, thank you."

"Yeah, well, they all love ya. They think you're the epitome of style and class."

"They are correct," he said, straightening his tie. "Now, Ms. Nadine, isn't there somewhere you have to be? Don't you have a store to run?"

"Look who's tryna get rid of me," she scoffed mockingly. "All right, all right, I know when to take a hint. I'll see you two lovebirds later." Nadine rose from the sofa and left through the front doors; when they shut, Barbara turned to her husband and laughed.

"I cannot believe you said yes to allowing your entire family here tomorrow," Antoine muttered, rubbing his fingers against his fully-grayed temples.

"Did I really do that?" Barbara asked innocently, curling up onto the couch.

"Oh, you most certainly did," he said, hands on his hips. "You did, and you hadn't even consulted me. Now, I'm going to have to hear Uncle Morty talk my ears off about the newest grill that he's gone and bought. Or last week's positively _riveting_ New York Giants game. Or perhaps the hilarious story about how he knocked over the lit menorah during Hanukkah and nearly set his apartment on fire."

"Heh. That is a funny story, though, you gotta admit."

"Oh, surely. Still quite a knee-slapper...the twenty-sixth time around." The former spy let out a deep and frustrated sigh and sat down next to his wife, putting his arm around her and snuffing out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray that sat on the coffee table. The stress of working towards what he'd always wanted to do was catching up to him.

After they'd received their severance pay from BLU, both the Pyro and the Spy forfeited their job titles and continued a relationship with each other. Though they'd had their disagreements and differences, it made for an interesting dynamic in which one always learned from the other, keeping them on their toes. Eventually, they married in a quiet ceremony and decided to pursue things that they'd always wanted to do; for example, the Spy undertook a degree in law. He resigned from his life of masked espionage, though still refused to leave his house unarmed. The Pyro returned to her pre-BLU occupation as an expert pyrotechnician. The fire-specialist did everything in her power to stay near those wonderful flames, including organizing fireworks shows, coordinating concert pyrotechnics, and setting government-controlled fires.

The couple eventually moved to a large mansion in the Hamptons once they'd realized that they had more money than they knew how to spend. In terms of her appearance, the Pyro, Barbara, hadn't let herself go nearly as badly as she had during her years at BLU. She made herself look presentable, but still left herself mostly natural.

The Spy, Antoine, never minded in the slightest.

"Aw, c'mon," Barbara cackled. "Ya know the twenty-seventh time's the charm."

"Most definitely. I await the twenty-seventh telling of the menorah story with bated breath."

"Now that's the spirit!" she said, pecking him on the cheek. He pulled her closer to him and they kissed deeply, the same feeling surging through them as the one that did the very first time their lips met. They slowly broke apart and sat next to each other on the couch.

"You do not have any work to attend to today? No fires to set?" Antoine asked, glancing at his watch.

"Nope, nothin' today," Barbara answered, running her fingers through her wild hair.

"Superb. Absolutely superb," he said, standing and straightening his clothes.

"Are you off somewhere?" she asked with a quirk of her brow.

"I may be. I might ask you to accompany me."

"And if I say no?"

"I don't see why you would. Why, there are so many pleasant activities in which we could be partaking right now. I've got a particular one in mind that would be _quite_ enjoyable."

"Hm. Well, then," she said, rising. "Maybe I'll give it a shot." Though both of them walked slowly together at first, once they'd reached the staircase, they bolted upstairs, scrambled into their bedroom, and slammed the door. A short, uniformed house cleaner with a duster in her hand emerged from a closet and gazed up the stairs as a butler came out of the kitchen next door.

"Again?" asked the butler.

"Fourth time this week," answered the cleaner.

"It's a Monday," he replied incredulously. She shrugged, and many minutes of silence passed before Antoine quietly came down the stairs and entered his study—oblivious to the two employees standing around doing nothing nearby. He reached into his pocket for his cigarette case, only to find emptiness.

"Barbara," he called, "where the devil are my cigarettes?"

* * *

><p>after over three years, i am finally done with this story! thank you so much to EVERYONE for sticking by me and reading this story. seriously, it means so very much to me. thank you so much for your support over the years. i truly appreciated every bit of feedback and every bit of readership this story has accrued.<p>

p.s. i had no idea how to end this so i pulled another my fair lady reference

in the meantime, i've got some TF2 satire stories coming up soon if you wanna check em out. until next time!


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